


A Fool for Fire

by thebatwiggler



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Language, F/M, Jealousy, M/M, Misunderstanding, Not compliant with S2 at all, Oblivious and silly boys in love, Pack Dynamics, Romance, Warning for idiocy, most of it is on Derek's side surprisingly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-14
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-07 17:25:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 38,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/433595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebatwiggler/pseuds/thebatwiggler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and Derek see their relationship in two very different ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Like a Fool for Fire

**Author's Note:**

> SUMMARY: Stiles and Derek see their relationship in two very different ways. 
> 
> (Or, the one where Stiles thinks they're fuck buddies while Derek believes they're in a committed relationship.)
> 
> ~*~*~*~*~*
> 
> Hello! Welcome to my first fanfic in quite a while. This baby was born from my [tumblr ramblings](http://thebatwiggler.tumblr.com/post/22357691480/so-i-want-this-fic-like-really-really-bad), and it has been growing for more than a month already (warning for spoilers if you click on the link!). It's almost done, so the entire fic should be completed soon. For snippets or fic updates, however, you can check out my tumblr (it's under the same name). 
> 
> I'd love to thank [GoddessofBirth](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessofBirth/pseuds/GoddessofBirth), who is an awesome person and beta'd this fic for me.
> 
> Now with lovely art done by the magnificent [Spammerz!](http://spammerz.tumblr.com/). Thanks so much, darling!

 

~*~*~*~*~*  
  
The first time it happens, Stiles is expecting a punch to the face.  
  
They’re arguing again, Stiles mouthing off as if it’s an Olympic sport, while Derek lurks in the corner of his room like the creeper he is. “I have a _life_ , Derek. I know the concept is completely foreign to you, but to some of us that kind of thing is important. Hence, _no_ I won’t do research for you today!”  
  
Stiles can feel himself grow hot already, blood seeping up into his face as he stares Derek down. But screw this; he has schoolwork and a paper to write before tomorrow, and if his grades sink any lower, his dad’ll never let him hear the end of it. It’s barely the beginning of his senior year, and he doesn’t want to start it off horribly behind just because the alpha can’t wait one day. And he _always_ does what Derek and the pack want him to, dammit. He’s not asking for a lot here, so he’s going to scour up the tiny bit of courage he has and stay strong.  
  
“You will,” Derek growls, advancing slowly, “by tonight.”  
  
“ _No_. Listen, I can probably look at it tomorrow, but that’s the best I can do.” At this point, Derek is close enough that one more step will bring them chest to chest. Derek’s eyes flash red and Stiles briefly considers just giving in; a few late homework assignments aren’t worth a full-grown alpha going crazy in his room.  
  
A palm slaps against the wall right next to his head and Derek leans close, breath skimming lightly over Stiles’ cheeks. “You’ll do it,” he says, voice low, “by tonight.”  
  
Derek begins to lean back, bringing distance between them once again and Stiles doesn’t know why he does it, doesn’t know what makes him open his stupid mouth before Derek completely moves away. He guesses it has a little to do with how unimportant he’s been feeling lately, with Scott over at his exclusive werewolf pack club all the time. He’s a little hurt, he’s man enough enough to admit it, and a little angry, too.  
  
A tiny part of him, though, argues that maybe he opened his mouth just so he could see Derek for a few more minutes, even if the werewolf spent the time threatening him. It’s hopeless, he knows, this insignificant crush he has. He should have learned his lesson with Lydia, and he did to an extent. For starters, he’d never be stupid enough to show Derek how important the werewolf was to him. But he still couldn’t help himself when he started to admire Derek in a more than friendly  manner, when his quiet and begrudging respect for the werewolf turned into outright appreciation for him, and when his appreciation turned into a crush that was not _really_ a crush.  
  
After all, no one would ever say that Stilinskis did things by halves.  
  
But regardless of how irrational his crush was, Stiles still tried to make these kind of moments last. If even for a little while, because Stiles was the kind of person to hoard things. He hoarded Scott’s attention when he could, he jealously clutched at what little time he spent with his dad, and he grasped tightly around these moments with Derek because these were the only ones he’ll ever have.  
  
So, “Make me,” he breathes out.  
  
A flicker of something crosses Derek’s face, some unidentifiable emotion, and before he knows it, Stiles is being practically thrown across the room unto his bed. _Oh shit,_ Stiles thinks frantically, _I’m going to die_. He finally crossed the line, finally pushed Derek over the edge, and he was _going to die_.  
  
Derek grips both of Stiles’ wrists in one hand, with enough strength to bruise, and pushes them close to the headboard above his head. The werewolf straddles Stiles’ hips and leans down, grin feral in the artificial light in the room. “Oh my god, oh my god, I was just kidding, don’t do anything rash here, I’ll do anything you want, _Derek_!”  
  
Despite his frantic words, though, Stiles stops trying to get away and freezes. Because if Derek doesn’t kill him for back-talking, he _will_ murder Stiles for the huge hard-on he’s trying to bring under control. He can’t help himself, though; Derek’s practically sitting right on top of his cock, one strong arm planted right next to his face. He makes a valiant effort to keep his reaction under control as Derek looms over Stiles, hazel eyes inches from Stiles’ face.  
  
“Shut. _Up_. Stiles.” The hand not clutching his wrists moves from the pillow, inching slowly from Stiles’ shoulder up to his neck and jaw. The rough words are contradicted by the somewhat-soft touch, and Stiles is left reeling. He tries to calm his breathing and heartbeat but a groan is yanked out of him when Derek suddenly latches onto his neck. At first he’s only sniffing and nuzzling across Stiles‘ neck, but he soon begins to suck harshly, nipping and licking in intervals, while Stiles tries to figure out if he’s dreaming or not.  
  
He feels detached for a moment, and he begins to assume that he’s having another adderall induced hallucination (never mind that he’s never had one before, now is clearly not the time for logic).  
  
His dick, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to give a rat’s patooty if he was hallucinating. Stiles tries to will his erection down, bites his lip so hard it starts bleeding. It all becomes a moot point, however, because then Derek decides to stop giving him the mother of all hickeys to say, “Anything I want, Stiles?”  
  
It takes a few moments for Stiles to get what Derek’s referring to, but when he does, he flushes horribly. He still manages to nod, though, unsure of where things are going, but positive that he wants this, whatever this is. Derek takes his nod as the obvious encouragement it is to lean backward and kiss Stiles.  
  
It’s chaste at first, and Stiles tries to memorize this moment, his first kiss with Derek (with anyone, honestly). He feels chapped lips slowly move against his, and Stiles hesitantly opens his mouth since he’s always wanted to try french kissing. Whatever gentleness there was evaporates and Derek is back to being aggressive and demanding, his tongue licking its way into Stiles’ mouth as if it _belonged_ there. He’s unsure of what exactly to do, not positive about how this kissing thing works, so he lets Derek take lead. The werewolf’s tongue is strong and sure as he licks inside of Stiles’ mouth, passing swiftly over teeth as if to simply taste them, to taste more of _Stiles_.  
  
Derek slowly ends the kiss, giving soft nips at Stiles’ bottom red lip as he pulls away. He smirks as he shrugs off his jacket, and his hands are back on Stiles soon after. They’re creeping up under his own shirt, trying to tug it off, while Stiles busies himself with extracting Derek’s still present tee. Derek finally growls and rips the clothes _off_ of him- “Ok, you are _not_ Tarzan, Derek! That shit costs _money_ ”- and soon after they’re naked, bodies writhing together on the bed.  
  
It’s then that Stiles sort of realizes the magnitude of what was going on. This guy, this amazingly handsome, smart, and loyal guy was into _him_ , Stiles. Sure, Derek had flaws; two years of knowing him made Stiles very aware of how socially inept and stoic the alpha could be. But he was also someone with strength, both physically and emotionally, who was independent and simply put, extraordinary.  
  
Stiles is a very self-aware individual and despite all of his jokes, he knows that he’s not the most desirable person around. So for this to happen, for Stiles to actually have his feelings reciprocated...  
  
This was a big deal.  
  
Stiles can’t help himself and moans delightfully at the thought, Derek’s hand stuttering along his sides. They’re grinding against one another and it’s not in the least attractive, but Stiles still feels overstimulated and yet unfulfilled. “More,” he groans, fingers pinching into Derek’s hips. “More!”  
  
Derek leans back to stare into his face and whatever he finds pleases him because he then asks, “Lube?”  
  
Stiles, despite his already red face, manages to flush a bit more before leaning over the bed and digging through his drawer. He tosses a condom and the never-before used bottle of gel to Derek, who simply raises an eyebrow before squirting some onto his fingers.  
  
Stiles breathes methodically, hoping to calm himself because holy hell, he’s about to have _sex_. Real sex with another person, a person he likes even- “Ow!” he yells as a finger intrusively penetrates his walls.  
  
Derek grunts in apology before slowing his finger, stretching him fully. A second finger, then a third, and before Stiles knows it, he’s begging Derek for more again.  
  
It’s painful being penetrated, Stiles learns, but it’s worth it for the small sounds of anguish Derek makes as he tries to hold. “So tight,” the alpha mutters, face buried in Stiles’ neck.  
  
“That’s what happens when you’re fucking a virgin,” Stiles sings with a wince, terribly off key and strained.  
  
Derek’s grip tightens even harder around his hips and he stills momentarily. “First kiss, too?”  
  
Stiles swallows before deciding that the truth was inevitable. “Yes, but I had to bat people off with a stick, got that? I’m a picky guy,” he grumbles, face beet red.  
  
Derek huffs and Stiles can almost convince himself that it was a laugh. He begins to grin before the werewolf start to move, and his expression turns into one of discomfort.  
  
The pace is slow at first, Derek letting Stiles adjust to having him inside him, but soon after it picks up and Derek changes angles experimentally. It gets better and better, until Stiles is left a moaning mess on the bed. He’s all clingy limbs and scratching nails, and Derek doesn’t even have to touch his dick for him to come. Derek, on the other hand, manages to thrust a few more times before also coming, hands bruisingly tight around his waist.  
  
Stiles sighs, contentment entering his body before he yawns. Derek starts to get up, gathering his clothes and heading momentarily for the bathroom.  
  
“So you’ll have the research done tonight.” It’s a statement and Stiles begins to feel unease seep into his insides.  
  
“Um, I really do have a ton of homework-”  
  
Derek won’t even look at him as he throws his shirt back on. “Do it. That’s what I came for, and I won’t be coming back to tell you again.” He finishes getting dressed and steps forward awkwardly to the foot of the bed. “Listen,” he sighs, frustration evident in his expression, “I have to go-”  
  
Stiles swallows and forces on a smile. “No, yeah, I get it. I’ll have your research done by tonight, it’ll be in my mailbox in the morning, ok? No worries.” He tries to laugh awkwardly, embarrassment and sadness gathering low in his stomach. Of course Derek Hale isn’t interested in him; hell, it’s obvious the guy can’t get away fast enough. And Stiles isn’t about to be the poor pathetic person who begged him to stay. If Derek wants him to play it cool, then he was going to be cool.  
  
Derek gives him one last kiss before heading out the window, and Stiles forces himself to wait a solid ten minutes before heading into the bathroom and throwing up.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*  
  
He takes two showers as a precaution the next morning.  
  
As he drives to school, he worries the entire way if the pack will be able to sense what happened last night. He doesn’t want the entire group to know, especially Scott; Stiles hasn’t exactly come out yet, and while he’s sure that Scott won’t have a problem with it, he doesn’t want him to find out this way. He doesn’t want anyone to find out about him and Derek, because having his friends know he’s someone’s dirty secret is embarrassing, a level of embarrassment that Stiles has never before been privy to. This is personal, and while Stiles would never judge another person for having an unattached sexual relationship, he is ashamed of this.  
  
Mostly, he’s disappointed at how weak he is, how he could fool himself into believing Derek Hale of all people was interested in him. He should have yelled and screamed afterwards; should have done _something_. He isn’t some damsel who needs saving; he’s strong and smart, he knows this, and he’s never had a problem standing up to people like Jackson, so Derek shouldn’t have been a problem. A smaller part of him, though, a part he tries not to acknowledge, is ashamed at himself. Obviously, Derek is at least bi-curious. If Stiles were at least a little bit more handsome or charismatic or _normal_...  
  
But he won’t dwell on thoughts like those. He can’t change things, so why think so negatively? Besides, he usually likes himself just fine.  
  
His worries about the pack finding out are for nothing, though, because school goes as normal. He sits with the group at lunch (albeit beside Allison and Danny, with a distance far away enough from the others that he won’t be too close to their freakish noses), spending his time conversing mostly with Lydia about their shared AP classes and teasingly taunting Jackson about his slip up during yesterday’s lacrosse practice.  
  
It was moments like these that Stiles very much enjoyed the fact that he was surrounded by werewolves; it meant he was surrounded by _people_ , and while they didn’t always get along, they were stuck with each other (in his darker moments, he’ll amend this by saying they’re stuck with _him_ , but he tries not to have many of those).  
  
It was like a family, the kind he hasn’t really had since his mother passed away.  
  
Regardless of how well lunch went, Stiles tries to keep his distance from his friends throughout the day. He sits with Danny and Allison during class, which thankfully is not that weird since they kind of stuck together as the “humans” of the group.  
  
At the end of the day, however, Stiles thinks the gig is up. He’s on his way to his car, ready to head home since practice was cancelled, when Jackson swings an arm around him, startling him. Now, Stiles is sort of used to the impromptu touching the pack does, but he’d been hoping that today they’d forget about cuddling him because touching leads to sniffing which leads to-  
  
“Hey, you know, you smell off today,” Jackson says, face scrunched up in confusion or distaste (it was hard to tell with him sometimes).  
  
“Hate to say this, but he’s right,” Scott pipes up from behind, startling Stiles once more. When had they all appeared? “I was wondering what it was all day-” he pauses, face tilted slightly to the side. Stiles stops walking, body squished between Jackson and an old Honda in the parking lot, his body filling with dread and worry.  
  
He’s about to open his mouth- _deny deny deny_ \- when all of a sudden Jackson drops his arm and Scott side-steps him easily. “Eh,” Scott says, face turned away from Stiles, “must be our senses kicking into overdrive with the full-moon coming up.”  
  
Stiles sighs, suspiciously content with how easily things went, but still relieved that his lack of judgement last night will continue to remain a secret. Besides, it’s not like Derek will come back again any time soon. Derek made it clear that Stiles was just a convenient body last night, and with the werewolf’s looks, he could get _anyone_. And also, it’s not like Stiles will give him the time of day either. One moment of weakness is forgivable, sure, but another? _Unimaginable_.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Derek comes back two nights later. Stiles is quiet, his heartbeat erratic as he sits up in his bed. Derek wastes no time in climbing in, shucking his shoes off gracefully at the foot of the mattress before positioning himself between Stiles’ legs.  
  
He leans forward to scent at Stiles first, licking his neck and nipping at random. Stiles feels his body grow hot, responding eagerly to Derek but- but, there is also an ache, steady and strong, growing within his chest. He breathes shallowly as Derek undresses him, and he is unsure of whether it’s caused by arousal or... something else. He tries to force himself into opening his mouth, into saying no, Derek, you can’t have this, but he finds that he can’t. Instead of doing what he should, he feels himself lean into Derek’s wandering hands, body arching when delicious contact is made.  
  
There is a pause in movement while Derek leans backward to grab lube from his discarded jeans, and Stiles takes this moment to lean back into the bed heavily. He breathes in deeply, taking in the Derek’s scent of earth and cologne. It’s an intoxicating smell so he closes his eyes for a moment, lost in the fact that Derek is _here_. He opens his eyes when he feels Derek lean over him again, a growl of approval filling the silence.  
  
As fingers probe his entrance, Derek growls and kisses him roughly, something he still doesn’t quite have the hang of. Derek was his first kiss and he obviously hasn’t practiced since their last meeting, so he lets the werewolf take control. As Derek nips at his lips, tongue surging in and licking its way inside of his mouth, Stiles can’t help but think of how stupid he is. How stupid could he be to think that someone like Derek Hale could look at him and see someone attractive and worthwhile? And how little must his own self-esteem be that he lets Derek do this? Nevertheless, he enjoys this, allows himself this and clings to Derek like a drowning person does a lifejacket.  
  
He can’t help the moan that escapes when Derek enters him, shameless and full of shame all at once. Nails scratch at broad shoulders, and Derek seems to like that, likes it a lot if the enthusiastic growl is anything to go by, so Stiles does it again. And right there, as he draws tiny amounts of blood from Derek’s back, he can lie to himself and say that he does it because of passion. He tells himself that his fingers dig in so deep because Derek keeps finding that sweet spot inside of him, because he’s barely a non-virgin and this is too much for him still.  
  
He lies and lies and lies because it’s better than recognizing how bitter he is, how bad of a person he is to actually want to hurt Derek, if only a little, for not wanting him. For not wanting _all_ of him.  
  
The rhythm is steady and fast, Stiles’ legs tightly wound around Derek’s hips as he presses into him. It doesn’t take long for Stiles to come, the pace unforgiving and pleasurable, so when Derek  brings one slicked hand down to trace down his shaft, he comes hard and fast. He clenches instinctively, but Derek only grunts momentarily before continuing his pace.  
  
After a few thrusts, Stiles starts to squirm once more, too much stimulation on his prostrate right after his orgasm making him curl his toes and hold on tightly to Derek’s shoulders. He digs his fingers in, voice breathless as he says, “Come on, _fuck_ , Derek!”  
  
The alpha picks up the pace brutally, the bed rocking loudly back and forth. He growls as he sinks his teeth into Stiles’ shoulder with enough strength to bruise, not bleed. It isn’t until Stiles’ right hand reaches up and _pulls_ at Derek’s hair that the older man comes, a cut off shout wrenched from his throat.  
  
They lay there for a while, Derek still inside of Stiles, breath ragged as they cling to one another. Stiles removes himself first, untangling his arms from around the older male and dropping his legs back down onto the mattress. This prompts Derek, who gives him one last kiss before slipping out of bed to throw the condom away and get ready. Stiles hears the rustle of clothes and quickly after, the opening of his bedroom window.  
  
He leans over the edge of his bed to grab his boxers, only wincing slightly in pain at the movement. He then settles back into bed and wonders at how this is his life.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*  
  
It becomes routine after that. Almost every day, Derek climbs into his window and fucks him, no preamble or conversation beforehand. Sometimes there are kisses, gentle ones at first but Stiles quickly puts an end to that. He doesn’t need Derek’s pity; that kind of false affection only hurts more.  
  
So they fuck, always on Stiles’ bed and always at night. Except one time.  
  
They have sex once in Derek’s home.  
  
It’s right at the beginning of their... relationship, less than two weeks since the first night. Long after one of the pack meetings, Stiles stays behind to help clean up a bit and ends up with his pants around his knees and a huge body kneeling down in front of him in the kitchen.  
  
Stiles comes quickly, fingers curled around the burnt counter tops in an effort not to bury them in Derek’s hair. Derek _laps_ at his cum, sucking every last drop so desperately that Stiles has no other choice but to slowly get half-hard again.  
  
Quickly, so quickly that he gets slightly dizzy, Stiles is being manhandled up a flight of stairs and ends up being thrown onto a mattress on the floor. He bounces slightly, orienting himself to his surroundings when Derek climbs over him, sans pants and shirt. The older male wastes no time in yanking off Stiles’ clothes, and fingers finding his entrance easily. Derek spends a few moments searching for a bottle of lube underneath the mattress before slicked fingers are pushing against Stiles.  
  
He groans, somewhat used to the act itself but still not accustomed to seeing Derek in these moments. The werewolf’s eyebrows furrowed in concentration, tongue sneaking out occasionally to lick his lips. He looks beautiful, sweat glistening on his body, and Stiles can already see how Derek’s face will look when he comes. Can already see the way he’ll close his eyes and lean on Stiles’ shoulder as if searching for some support, and suddenly Stiles can’t take it. He pushes himself up and over, preferring to lay on his belly to avoid looking at Derek; the werewolf’s face will only serve to haunt him later on.  
  
A large, warm hand pushes at his side with the intent to roll him over again but Stiles says, “I want to try it this way,” and the hands pause briefly before continuing to spread Stiles wide open.  
  
Derek fucks him slowly, keeping the kind of pace that drives Stiles wild with desperation. He usually doesn’t try to hold back in bed, letting out his moans and grunts because self-control was never something he had a lot of. But now- now he _screams_. The pace is torture and Derek somehow manages to hit his prostate every other thrust, keeping him on the brink of pleasure the entire time.  
  
They fuck for hours, it seems like to Stiles. By this point, Stiles has completely given up on trying to help himself along since whenever he does, Derek just swats his hands away and growls, “When _I_ say so.”  
  
Which, yeah, totally hot. But now, as Stiles dips his head low, unable to even hold himself up anymore, it’s pure _torture_. Derek’s hands are the only thing keeping his lower half upright, gripping his hips with bruise-worthy strength as he thrusts in and out in a steady rhythm. He finally just lays his head flat against the mattress, arms limp and spread wide, as what little strength he has leaves him. Stiles’ fingers claw weakly at the plain mattress, limbs shaking with pleasure and over-stimulation.  
  
“De- Derek,” Stiles pants. “ _Please_.”  
  
Stiles feels more than hears the growl that Derek releases, and soon after a large hand comes around to grip at his cock. Stiles moans loudly and bucks forward, but Derek’s other hand still has a hard grip on his waist. Derek pumps him as slowly as he fucks him, his thrusts keeping time with his strokes and Stiles’ moans gain momentum once again.  
  
He’s rambling and moaning, twisting this way and that desperately in search of relief. He feels the sweat sliding off of his forehead, his short hair plastered to his face, but his body is on fire. He craves release, and he tries once again push back into Derek to see if he’ll finally listen and go _faster_ , _harder_.  
  
Derek growls once more and then he bites Stiles, right at the curve on his shoulder where he’s most sensitive. Stiles cries out and comes ridiculously hard, breath stuttering and mind blanking for almost a minute. He clenches his muscles hard, and he figures that was enough for Derek as well since he’s coming deep in Stiles, thrust into him up to the root.  
  
Stiles lays there for a few minutes, simply catching his breath before he finds the strength to roll over. Derek is already gone, the bathroom light on, so Stiles gives himself a few moments to rest before cleaning himself up.  
  
He stares at the ceiling, at the destruction bestowed upon the Hale house. The place was still a dump; it was barely livable and Derek had made only the barest of repairs to the place in the couple of years he’s known him. Stiles knows he has a decent amount of money in the bank- Scott told him that Derek had actually been an Economics student while in college and had made some small investments keeping him afloat while in New York. Also, after Kate Argent was found guilty for the murder of the Hale family, Derek received a hefty amount of insurance money that he had previously been denied.  
  
Stiles didn’t understand why he would have all of that money and not use it for something worthwhile, like fixing up his house. Why would he willingly live in something that practically screamed of the past, instead of working towards making it his own? Stiles understands the difficulty of letting go of the past- he still keeps the book his mother used to read to him right by his bedside table, ready to be pulled out every night he wishes to remember her- but to surround oneself by the constant reminder of how his whole family _died_?  
  
“How could you live like that?” Stiles mutters, unaware that he even spoke aloud until he hears the sound of something dropping in the bathroom. His heartbeat picks up- and how indicative of this is his life, how his first thought whenever something happens is that his _heartbeat_ changes- and he looks to the bathroom to see Derek standing there, eyes narrowed dangerously.  
  
“I- I didn’t mean it like that, ok?” he starts, frantically hoping to head off the beat-down he sees in his immediate future. “I meant it in a total empathetic manner- _empathetic_ , not-not whatever you’re thinking, please stop growling!- because you know, you live in this house that is slowly falling apart and it’s a bit of a creepy shrine to your family and I was just thinking that maybe it would be better if you rebuilt more because it’s not healthy ok, it’s been more than a decade, and I’m sure they wouldn’t want this for you and, and, and _oh my god please don’t kill me_!”  
  
Derek’s eyes are red by this point and his canines are slightly elongated, but otherwise he seems controlled. Stiles stays still regardless, blood rushing from his face as he sits in utter mortification of what he’s said. Stiles can see the deep breaths Derek takes, and he starts slightly when Derek talks. “You should go,” he says, voice deep and rough.  
  
Stiles nods quickly, grabs his things and dresses on his way out the door. He berates himself the entire way home, scared out of his wits that whatever he’s done will end things with Derek for good.  
  
The worst part is, he doesn’t know whether that’s a bad thing or not.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Derek comes by that night, and Stiles rushes to apologize because no matter his feelings about this “thing” with Derek, he really did overstep. “Look, about today-”  
  
Derek silences him with a kiss, stubble prickling his skin. “Don’t come by. For a while. Ok?” The question is more a statement because by then Derek proceeds to devour  Stiles thoroughly.  
  
That’s that then.    
  
~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Because of Derek’s apparent exiling of Stiles from his home, he’s also banned from all pack meetings now (since they’re held at the Hale residence) and he feels... left out. He can admit that at first, when Scott grudgingly told him that _no_ , Stiles couldn’t tag along and if he could _please_ stop bringing it up, it makes him uncomfortable, he kind of wanted to cry. It was as if, due to his stupid comment to Derek, the whole pack was trying to push him out. And ok, it also sort of bugs him that nobody from the group even stands up for him; no outcries about why suddenly Stiles isn’t welcome at pack meetings; it’s just simply accepted as fact.  
  
He consoles himself with the fact that he still gets to hang out with the group routinely. Given that everyone, with the exception of Danny and Allison, is an only child with very busy (or negligent, Stiles would say in some cases... specifically Jackson or Lydia’s) parents they tend to hang out often at one another’s homes.  
  
They began the tradition grudgingly their junior year, when things were still awkward between everyone and uncomfortableness hung in the atmosphere like air freshener. Derek would force them all to sit through horrendous movies and junk food in the name of “pack bonding”. But now they keep to the routine religiously and meet closer to three or four times a week (aside from pack meetings) instead of only once.  
  
Stiles enjoys the feeling of having more than one friend, even though he can’t always tell if everyone else always likes him. He knows he has a spot in the group, though; he’s the researcher and Scott's best friend, and yeah, maybe not everyone always _wants_ him there but they definitely _need_ him.  
  
He refuses to acknowledge how pathetic that sounds.  
  
So Stiles pretends not to be hurt when his absence isn’t missed at meetings (something he is well-practiced in doing), and hangs out with the group whenever he can. He begins to think maybe he’s pushing his luck with them, that maybe he’s forcing himself on them in some way. He ignores this feeling until... evidence that is too blatant for him not to see appears.  
  
It’s October, about a week before Halloween when Stiles decides to drop by Scott’s house unannounced for a hang out sesh (a travesty of a tradition since the sessions themselves declined drastically after Allison appeared). Before he even begins scaling the side of the house, something he used to do all the time in order to scare Scott, he gets the crap scared out of _him_ by Lydia.  
  
“Geez louise, warn a guy before you sneak up on him!” he yells, arms flailing ridiculously. His back hits the side of the house roughly, Lydia staring back at him unimpressively.  
  
“Stiles, what are you doing here?” Lydia asks exasperatedly. She looks ready to start bearing her teeth, a habit she’d gained after being turned, so he hurries to answer.  
  
“Oh, you know, just coming over for some quality bro-time with Scott... What are _you_ doing here?” He narrows his eyes, wondering when Lydia became best friends with Scott of all people.  
  
She rolls her eyes, her mouth twitching with amusement. As quick as her smile began to form, however, it’s gone to be replaced with a look of seriousness. “Listen. As much as I know Scott would love to see you,” a pointed look of disdain crosses her features, “he’s busy. We’re talking about important things, things that _you_ wouldn’t understand.”  
  
Stiles doesn’t take offense; prolonged exposure to Lydia has taught him the difference between her tones, and when to know she’s _really_ insulting him. Nonetheless, he asks, “So... werewolf stuff?”  
  
“ _Yes_ ,” she says, patience wearing thin. She abruptly turns to the right, heading to the front door without so much as a goodbye.  
  
He shrugs nonchalantly to no one and grabs his keys from his pocket. As he’s walking to his jeep, he catches sight of two smaller cars parked farther along the sidewalk.  
  
If this was only werewolf business and he was obviously not invited because of his humanness... why were Danny and Allison here?  
  
~*~*~*~*~*  
  
It happens often after that. He tries to talk to Scott about it at first, tries to playfully bring up the subject.  
  
(It usually starts with him asking something along the lines of, “So I heard you guys hung out at the mall/ at Jackson’s/ at Lydia’s/ at Scott’s the other day.”  
  
Scott also usually sputters for a moment before saying, “It was super last minute. Allison just needed to grab something/ needed to do homework/ werewolf stuff, you know how it is, um, hey, how excited are you for Amazing Spider-Man/ Dark Knight Rises/ Avengers?”  
  
Stiles lets Scott change the subject each time.)  
  
He learns to stop asking. And to stop assuming he’s invited.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*  
  
The interesting thing is that despite how angry Derek is at his comments about his house, he still comes every night. Stiles takes some comfort in this; he could’ve been permanently out of the pack and then where would he be? No friends (except maybe Scott) and no Derek, a miserable existence if he’d ever heard of one.  
  
It’s fascinating to Stiles, though. The way that Derek behaves sometimes, it’s almost as if he forgets that they’re only fuck-buddies. At times, when Stiles is so strung out that he can’t get up, Derek will clean him gently and thoroughly. Sometimes there are soft kisses on his back, fingers tracing patterns on his body Stiles can’t quite follow.  
  
Stiles enjoys these moments but he can’t help but be tense during them as well. He’s always waiting for the punch line, for Derek to suddenly snap back and tell him that _no_ , of course he’s not interested in Stiles, why would anyone even _think_ that?  
  
There’s not a lot of kissing, either. Sex always comes first, and Stiles doesn’t let himself be fucked unless his back is to Derek so kissing during the act is rare. Occasionally, Derek’ll pull his hair back and tongue his way inside his mouth but Stiles considers these acts of passion and doesn’t put much thought into it.  
  
It’s the kisses after the sex that throw him off. Every time, like clockwork, Derek will kiss him sweetly after they fuck; he’ll usually grip Stiles’ neck with his hand, thumb padding softly at his jawline. It’s always chaste but not quick; a kiss between lovers, he’d imagine, and he always dreads these kisses like they were sending him to his deathbed. He stopped trying to avoid them, though, because Derek was relentless; the first time he’d tried to shift his head away, there were bruises on the underside of his jaw from where Derek’s fingers pressed in tightly to keep him in place.  
  
He hates those kisses; they belied the fact that their relationship was purely physical, and dammit if Stiles didn’t hate how much he craved for those kisses to _mean_ something.  
  
Eventually, though, despite the soft and gentle touches, Derek leaves silently afterwards. He’ll dress quickly, not even sparing him a glance as he makes his way over to the window and jumps out into the night.  
  
Stiles always has trouble sleeping after Derek leaves.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*  
  
By the end of November, months into this whole “Stiles cannot enter into Hale territory” thing, Stiles finally gets fed up. It’s a Saturday, everyone else it at Derek’s and given that finals are literally next week and Scott is his lab partner in Physics, he decides that screw it, he’s heading over there to at least get Scott to study with him a little.  
  
Besides, he figures that considering it’s been months and neither Derek or the group have officially come out and told him that he’s not in the pack, he’s good to go. It’s been quite a while since he last tried to sneak into Derek’s place, so the alpha’s anger has most likely subsided by now. In addition to all of that, though, Stiles is Stiles; he’s the kind of guy who’ll go looking for a dead body in the woods with a killer still loose, so a few werewolves won’t scare him off easily.  
  
He grabs his backpack and drives over to the woods, excitement bubbling lowly in his stomach. Pack meetings are the only time that everyone’s schedules coincide completely and he’s looking forward to seeing everyone together. Hell, he’ll still be happy even if they force him to play hide-and-go-seek for the werewolves (he refuses to wear that stupid red sweatshirt Lydia always brings for him, though. That stopped being funny the first time).  
  
He’s driving in the woods, music blasting, when a figure steps out into the path. He’s far back enough that he doesn’t panic, simply brakes harshly. He kills the music and leans out of the window, able to make out Scott’s figure. “Dude, I don’t care Superman-esque you are, normal people do not jump out in front of moving vehicles. Basic survival 101.”  
  
“What are you doing here, Stiles?” Scott asks. He sounds irritated and concerned, a unique blend that’s almost custom when talking to Stiles.  
  
That tone doesn’t sit well with him, not now. “We’re partners in physics,” he snaps. “And I don’t care how much of a pushover you think I am, I’m not doing all the work again.”  
  
“ _Stiles_ , I promise I’ll do my half of the work! Hell, I’ll do _all_ of it, just leave, ok? You need to leave.” Scott’s voice is pleading as he comes closer and closer to the jeep, walking so carefully it almost looks like he’s approaching a skittish animal. Stiles glances up into the woods, spotting a couple of more figures among the tress. Lydia and Jackson were listening in then.  
  
Stiles is about to rant and rave, literally has his mouth open to demand to know what the ever-loving _hell_ is going on, because he is pissed now. He played their game already, he let Scott and the others avoid him, he let Derek ban him from meetings, but he is _not_ going to stand back and let them treat him like some sort of _pariah_.  
  
He has pride, ok, he has _dignity_ and screw them if they think he’s going to take this. They don’t want him in the group anymore? Fine. That’s all fine, he doesn’t care anymore, but he’s gonna give them hell because Stiles is _Stiles_. And he’s tired of holding back what he thinks because obviously, these people aren’t his friends so why should he care about their feelings?  
  
This is, of course, the moment when Derek chooses to make his appearance. Stiles stops, mouth open and ready to spout angry nonsense, when he spots the alpha. And that’s when all the anger just leaves him. He can’t even seethe correctly because just looking at Derek, Stiles already knows it’s a lost cause. And he’s proven correct when Derek, in all his wolfy glory, glares him down and says, “I told you to stay away.”  
  
Stiles sighs, suddenly tired and exhausted beyond words. “Yeah, yeah. Not allowed, I get it. I just-” he stutters, hands rubbing fatigue from his face, “I just needed to talk to Scott about some school stuff.”  
  
That only makes Derek glare harder, the knit in his eyebrows more pronounced. “Take care of it on your own time. The pack is occupied and your presence isn’t required.” Derek turns then, stride purposeful as he heads back to his home. The others follow, one by one, Scott being the last to vacate the area.  
  
Stiles refuses to look at him. He simply puts his jeep into reverse and tears out of the woods. He can’t even find it in himself to be shocked; he knew on some level that he wasn’t part of the pack anymore, but to hear it put so bluntly...  
  
He drives, mind eerily calm as he considers what just happened.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Derek still comes over that night. Stiles sits straight up in bed as Derek slides into the room, and he is literally frozen in shock at how _little_ Derek thinks of him. How _dare_ he still come back here after throwing him out of the group, after basically announcing that his presence isn’t _wanted_.  
  
As if sensing his fury, Derek lumbers over awkwardly, his movements much more tense than usual. Stiles scoots back, wanting as much space between them as possible, and he leans back into the headboard. “I didn’t think you’d come,” he says, because what else can he say? _I thought you were done with me_ sounds too needy and he’s anything but.  
  
Derek pauses in his trek to the bed, eyes narrowed as if Stiles were some complicated puzzle that he can’t quite make out. “Why wouldn’t I?” he replies, voice low as it always is in these moments.  
  
“The woods-”  
  
Derek snorts. “Pack business is separate from this. You just need to _listen_ next time.” He then begins to shuck his shirt and pants, secure once more in the knowledge that Stiles won’t say no. With dawning realization comes sick comprehension.  
  
Stiles isn’t good enough for pack but he is good for a quick fuck.  
  
And the pathetic thing is, Stiles should have known that this was where he’d end up. Allison had her place as Scot’s mate and Danny was going to get the bite, everyone knew that. Stiles though- he’s dead weight, and it’s clear that Derek views him as no more than that.  
  
So instead of getting angry, he nods to himself and turns over. He lets Derek fuck him one last time because hell, he’s about to close a chapter of his life and what’s another fuck thrown in there?  
  
He spends the night memorizing every piece of skin he can reach, every dimple and freckle on Derek’s body he can find. He pulls at Derek’s hair, tries to leave a hickey or two (something he’d never done before), and Derek is enthusiastically receptive. Stiles kisses him, too; a lot more than average, and he revels in the intimate act as much as he can.  
  
He does all of this and more, because come tomorrow he won’t let himself have this anymore.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*  
  
He takes to avoiding the pack as much as he can; it’s not difficult considering _they_ were avoiding _him_ , so all he does is aid them in their efforts. During lunch, he always has a convenient piece of homework left to do in the library. He doesn’t skip lacrosse practice or anything drastic, but he does have study groups for all of his classes that start immediately after practice.  
  
Scott sometimes sends him texts, asking him where he’s been and why he hasn’t sat with them at lunch. Even tries to interrogate him in the halls after school one day.  
  
“Where have you been, man? Feels like I haven’t seen you at all lately,” Scott had asked, face twisted in concern.  
  
Stiles laughed and reminded himself to stick with half-truths. “Been busy, you know, finals in two weeks. Got to keep my grades up if I want to get into those UCs, you saw how bad my dad wants me to go.”  
  
Scott looked unsure but eventually gave in because hey, technically Stiles wasn’t lying. He doesn’t let it bother him that he’s essentially avoiding his best friend; he needs some space from Scott but he knows that eventually they’ll go back to being pals (if distant ones). After all, it wasn’t Scott’s call to make to let Stiles stay in the pack, and a beta had no control over an alpha.  
  
But for now, he wants to avoid them. So he studies like crazy so he doesn’t lie to his friend when he questions him and he takes to invading the police department like he used to do when he was a kid.  
  
It’s against the rules and nobody else’s kid ever does it, but when Stiles’ mom died he was too young to stay home by himself and he tended to drive babysitters crazy. So he stayed in the police department, made friends with officers and played intern when they asked him to. He went right back to doing this, as if he’d never stopped, and if he spent a couple of nights there in order to avoid Derek, who had to know?  
  
The only times he didn’t stay at the police station were the times his dad didn’t have the night shift, so they went home together. Stiles’ windows were now locked shut and laced with mountain ash, and Derek hadn’t yet approached him, so he figured he got the message to stay away. Stiles still took to sleeping downstairs, though. With the Sheriff upstairs and no windows downstairs, Stiles was confident that Derek wouldn’t attempt to come in the house.  
  
He keeps this up for two weeks, up until finals, but he finds it a lot harder to avoid Scott and the others when he can’t use school as an excuse.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*  
  
As a last resort in his plan to avoid the pack as much as possible, Stiles hits the library a town over the second after finals are done. It’s a good twenty-five minutes away from Beacon Hills by freeway, but he knows it’s worth the time and gas the minute he steps inside.  
  
The building itself is relatively small, a one-story building that’s sectioned off at the entrance between the children’s area and the rest of the library. What he enjoys immensely, however, is how empty the place is. It was a Saturday, sure, but the Beacon Hills Public Library was usually full of the community and state college kids at all times (since it was relatively close to both campuses) and he couldn’t even chance his _high school_ library because it’d be way too easy for anyone from the pack to find him there.  
  
Content, he adjusts his backpack and heads away from the children’s section in search of a secluded corner to do his schoolwork. The library is relatively new, he notes, with modern bookcases and nice furniture. Even the chairs had padding, adding to his already good mood.  
  
“Hi!” a voice said, startling Stiles out of his appreciation for comfy furniture. “Is there anything you need help with?”  
  
Stiles sets his backpack on the table before turning to the stranger. “Nah, thanks. Just gonna sit and do some homework for a while.” He grins and shrugs lightly in a nonchalant manner.  
  
“Oh, sure. Don’t hesitate to let me know if there’s anything you need, though. I’m Jaime,” the librarian states with an awkward smile and an even more awkward hand wave.  
  
Jaime is tall, but gangly. Brown hair, brown eyes, a not-unpleasant face and pretty young from what Stiles can tell. Definitely not Derek Hale, but also charming in his own way. His body language, on the other hand, screams of an awkwardness that Stiles can relate to intimately. The taller man barely makes eye-contact as he shuffles away to his desk on the far side of the library, a few books clutched in his arms like treasures.  
  
Stiles is curious, but regardless he turns his attention to his schoolwork and sits down. He manages a good hour of dedicated work, managing some decent headway on his Econ semester project. He decides it’s time for a break, though, and heads over to the help desk.  
  
Jaime hears him approaching and looks up from the book he’s reading. Thick, black glasses that he wasn’t wearing before adorn his face, and Stiles can’t help himself. “Those are impressively nerdy glasses, man. Or were you going for more of the hipster look? ‘Cuz I think you may have over-done it a bit.”  
  
He grins widely like he always does when he amuses himself, but realizes a second too late that maybe the librarian won’t enjoy his sense of humor. He’d hate to be kicked out of his new favorite hangout within an hour of finding it. Before he can apologize, though, Jaime snorts rather unattractively and grins back. “Considering you’re wearing a plaid scarf with skinny jeans, I think maybe you should look in the mirror before calling someone else hipster.”  
  
Stiles laughs, perhaps even a bit too hard, but he can’t help it. “Hey, it’s December. I grab whatever provides warmth; scarves and tight jeans fit that description pretty nicely.” Jaime smirks amicably, putting his now-closed book on the table. “Anyway, I was wondering if you had any books on, um, werewolves?” he asks awkwardly, expecting the weird look he always gets at other libraries when he requests books on lycanthropy.  
  
Jaime, on the other hand, simply quirks an eyebrow and asks, “Like Twilight?”  
  
Stiles snorts, relaxing a bit more. “One, that guy is a _shapeshifter_. Huge difference. Second, just _no_. Sparkly vampires do not do it for me, dude.”  
  
Jaime’s smirk morphs into a laugh and Stiles smiles back, always happy when his humor is appreciated.  
  
Jaime shows him some books, most of which Stiles has already read, but the older boy doesn’t even comment on his apparent fixation with werewolves. He does, however, find a couple of promising pieces of literature and he decides to check them out.  
  
The conversation is light as they head back to the help desk to check the books out. When Stiles pulls out his wallet to grab his Beacon Hills library card, however, Jaime coughs lightly. “I... like your wallet.”  
  
Stiles looks at his Reverse Flash wallet that Scott got him for his birthday a few years back. “Yeah, I’m a bit of comic book nerd. Well, a bit of a nerd in general really,” he answers with a self-depreciating laugh.  
  
“Hm,” Jaime replies with a smile, “Marvel or DC?”  
  
Stiles grins. “If I had to choose? DC.” He waves the wallet as proof. “Huge Batman fanboy, too. You?”  
  
“Marvel. Was obsessed with X-Men as a kid for... pretty obvious reasons.” A look of awkward nervousness flits across Jaime’s face, and Stiles can’t help but like the guy a little more. He knew well the feeling of being an outcast, too.  
  
So he leans across the desk as invasively as possible and asks, “Star Wars or Star Trek? And beware, my opinion of you will forever be decided by your answer to this one question.”  
  
~*~*~*~*~*  
  
They end up sitting there talking for hours. Jaime is actually a college student, a freshman, going to the state college in town. He’s studying biology and wants to go to medical school, and Stiles is momentarily struck with a bit of a nerd crush right then and there. The way Jaime talks about school betrays the love he has for learning, something Stiles has never witnessed before. He’s all flailing hands and awkward head bobbing, and Stiles kind of wants to pinch his cheek the entire time.  
  
Jaime turns out to be Stiles’ brain twin or something, too, because they share a ridiculous amount of love for the same things. From movies to TV shows to science fiction, they like all of the same things. Sure, Jaime’s way more of a book nerd than Stiles ever was, but that’s also something that Stiles appreciates about him. It’s a novel experience, to be around someone who knew more about things than he did (and Lydia didn’t count because she _still_ hid her smarts more than half the time. And either way, she still tended to spend her time mocking him, so intellectual conversations tended to happen, like, never).  
  
This was also different from Scott; their friendship was mostly centered around mutual loneliness and social leprosy, so Stiles never really had anyone to geek out over things with who knew what he was talking about. Sure, Scott humored him when it came to watching re-runs of Doctor Who, but his best friend never really understood the amount of _enjoyment_ Stiles derived from it.  
  
Jaime, though, was essentially perfect. Oh, clearly he wasn’t perfect in the normal sense; prolonged conversation with him showed Stiles how truly socially awkward Jaime was at points, and he couldn’t help but recognize the signs of loneliness he knew all too well in the other’s posture and habits. But he was perfect for _Stiles_ in a way that no one had ever really been.  
  
Beacon Hills was small as it is, and with things so complicated with the pack lately, Stiles can’t help but latch onto Jaime full speed ahead. The library also provides a very convenient hiding spot from a certain alpha, so he grabs Jaime’s number with a bright smile and promises to email him some comic scans later in the night.  
  
As Stiles heads out the door, he already knows he’ll be back tomorrow.


	2. I Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the extremely long wait, but here is the second chapter <3 Huge thanks, once again, to [GoddessofBirth](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessofBirth/pseuds/GoddessofBirth) for the amazing beta-ing she continues to do for me. And also a ton of thanks to my amazing friend DawnBently for reading and encouraging me the whole way <3
> 
> And just a note! This chapter is Derek's POV of the events in chapter one :)

~*~*~*~*~*

Stiles is the most complicated person Derek has ever met. 

He’s never met anyone _like_ the hyperactive teen, either; he’s loud and abrasive, while simultaneously being observant and unendingly kind. Stiles will forgive almost any transgression, but he’s quick to anger as well. He doesn’t flaunt how smart he is, but can easily handle intellectual sparring matches with Lydia. He worries endlessly about others, and yet rarely complains about his own misfortunes. 

It’s enough to give Derek whiplash. 

And at first, it bothers him. It bothers him how difficult it is to pinpoint Stiles, to figure out why the kid is always around. He dislikes having someone so _present_ in his life, so ready to try and help when Derek learned long ago to go without that. And maybe, although he is so reluctant to admit it, the kid is interesting. Maybe he’s a person that Derek looks forward to seeing, _because_ he’s so different and good and _Stiles_. 

Maybe, or more like _surely,_ he likes Stiles. More than he can handle. 

Derek’s not used to feeling like this; doesn’t know what _this_ is, not truly. But Stiles gets under his skin in such a way that he can’t handle it; all he wants to do sometimes is go up to the human and crawl _inside_ him, get beneath Stiles’ senses as much as he’s done so to Derek. 

But Derek doesn’t know how to dothis; doesn’t know how to approach a relationship because he’s never had one before.  He and Kate were a very different kind of together, and he never mastered the art of being in a normal relationship afterwards, because all he would ever indulge himself with were quick moments with strangers when the urge became a problem. So this thing with Stiles, his feelings for him, are something entirely new. And that’s not even taking into consideration his age, which still makes his toes curl in discontent whenever he thinks about it. He’s confused all around about how to manage this, how to do this _right_. 

Derek doesn’t know how to do any of it, doesn’t know how to do _normal,_ so he just doesn’t do anything at all. 

~*~*~*~*~*

He gets his chance to change this, surprisingly, from Jackson. 

On the best of days, Derek feels like Jackson is some kind of punishment sent from the gods just for him. 

The kid is immature and selfish, and he doesn’t take pack bonding as seriously as he should. Derek tries to be understanding; he gets that the kid’s messed up and his parents are crappy, but his inability to get along with Scott for more than two minutes is starting to really grate on Derek’s nerves. Hell, it’s been three months since the beta was turned and he still doesn’t act like a proper werewolf. 

They’re training in front of his home, the August heat bearable with the shade from the trees. Derek’s been cramming in as many sessions as possible before the pack starts their junior year, because the Argents won’t be forgiving if any of them so much as lose an ounce of control in public. This training session, however, is quickly going south. 

“Fuck you, McCall!” Jackson spits out from his position on the floor. Scott winces, whether from the content or the volume of the words, Derek isn’t sure. Scott managed to lay the kid flat ( _again_ ) in ten minutes, an embarrassing feat even for Jackson, and it appears the blonde is starting to lose his temper.

“Get up and try again. You won’t get any better lying on the floor and cursing,” he cries out from his position in the shade. He hears a soft snort coming from the house and upon glancing, sure enough, he spots Stiles and Allison lounging on his porch with matching grins on their faces. She has the courtesy to at least lift her hand up to her mouth, a shoddy attempt at covering her amusement, but Stiles merely smiles wide and shameless. 

Derek resists the urge to roll his eyes.

Jackson catches the pair’s expressions as well and immediately snarls. The boy pushes himself to his feet and turns on Scott, face feral in anger. Derek holds back a sigh; teenagers are so damn _dramatic_. 

“So what? You think you’re a big shot now, ‘cause you got your little side-kick and girlfriend here to cheer you on?” Jackson sneers, face red with exertion and embarrassment. Scott merely stands back, eyebrows pinched with discontent but he doesn’t say anything. _At least one of them has brains_ , Derek thinks to himself. 

The lack of reply only infuriates Jackson more, and Derek decides he’s had enough of this for one day. He turns his back and heads towards the house with the full intent of grabbing some water. This isn’t the first time the kid suddenly went off, and it won’t be the last. Jackson’s been grating on _everyone’s_ nerves lately, and Derek just isn’t cut out for dealing with it. 

“Well you’re _not,_ McCall! I remember when you were a _loser,_ an asthmatic jerk-off who couldn’t even run a mile before fainting, a _social pariah-”_

He’s halfway up the porch steps when he sees movement to his left- it’s Stiles, up and running off towards the two werwolves at full sprint. “Hey!” he calls out, “Lay off, Jackson!”

The blonde snorts, bemusement crossing his features. “What’re you gonna do, Stilinski, call your dad on me? What’s he gonna do? _Arrest_ me?” The bemusement tinting the words hint at something more. It almost sounds like a threat, as far as teenagers can effectively threaten a person. 

Scott finally steps forward, eyes flashing golden for only a second. “Listen, man-” 

“ _What_?” Jackson says, “You actually going to do some-”

Jackson, as a werewolf, should have seen it coming. Stiles is only human, after all, and his speed is nothing compared to a werewolf, no matter how untrained the wolf is. Fact of the matter is, even Derek is surprised when Stiles full on punches the beta. 

They’re both on the ground, Jackson stunned so much he’s immobile, while Stiles just lays into him, if not with fists, then with words. “You _ever_ bring up my dad again, I swear to god-” Every spat-out word is enunciated with a shake, because of course Stiles is too kind to punch Jackson more than once. 

Derek walks over quickly, wrapping his arms around slim hips and lifting Stiles directly into the air. Not a second later, Jackson rips forward and tries to make a grab for him. Derek growls, baring his teeth to show dominance, before he drags the still screaming Stiles to the porch. 

Allison flitters about in the background while Scott manhandles Jackson back to the floor. Derek carries Stiles fireman-style into the house, snapping out on his way out, “Lydia! Get those two under control!”

He forces the human onto the only useable kitchen chair, causing it to rattle against the floor dangerously. Stiles is still making noise, attempting to get up until Derek shoves his shoulder back into a sitting position. “You need ice for your hand.”

“Derek!”

“Shut up and stay there before you get yourself hurt,” he orders, back turning as he searches for ice in the mini-fridge he has hooked up to the small generator out back. They have one only for these instances, when the humans get into more trouble than they’re worth. 

“What, you think I can’t handle that idiot?” Stiles is all flailing hands and outraged expressions; it was quite adorable, but Derek forces himself to ignore that train of thought. 

As it is, he lets his dubious and stern expression speak for itself. 

“ _Hey_! Werewolf or human, hunter or otherwise, I’m smart. People tend to forget that, I _know_ how often people forget that- but I’m smart. I can _fuck shit up_ , and trust me, I won’t hesitate no matter who it is! And- goddamn it- are you _laughing_ at me?” Stiles asks, voice so shrill that Derek is sure people in Oregon heard him. 

But Stiles is so earnest and sincere, so sure that he can cause someone else harm, that Derek can’t help but let his shoulders shake a little in mirth. Stiles is probably the nicest person he’s ever met, because no matter what the kid might be spewing out of his mouth, he’s always willing to help no matter what. And the idea that Stiles, as he so eloquently put it, might “fuck shit up” just makes him want to laugh harder than he has in years. 

“You- you- stop laughing! This isn’t funny! He talked about my _dad_ , Derek, I take things like that seriously!” 

Derek sobers slowly. “Jackson-”

“ _No,_ Derek. I don’t care that he’s in your little wolf-only club, or whatever your excuse is this time- _no one_ talks about mydad, ok? There’s a line, and he crossed it. If he wants this little pack thing to work out? If he wants me to help out with the research and keep Scott around- because you know as well as I do that without me, he’d be gone!- then he needs to learn the rules. And rule number one- we don’t talk about family.” Stiles’ voice is calm and level as he finishes talking, but his concentration is elsewhere. His body is angled towards the kitchen entrance, away from Derek.  

It takes Derek a second, but he realizes that Stiles is talking directly _to_ Jackson, that the teen is smart enough to know that Jackson will listen in on any and all conversations he shouldn’t be privy to. Of course Stiles- clever, _clever_ Stiles- would be observant enough to predict the pack’s behaviors by now. 

But he ignores that for the time being, and brings up the issue he is most interested in. 

“You think I coddle them?” 

“Uh.” Stiles does a quick double-take, obviously thrown by the change in conversation. “What?”

“Jackson. The betas. You think I coddle them.”

Derek watches as the Stiles’ freckled face floods with splotches of color. “I _think_ you misunder-”

“You said I was going to make an excuse.” Derek steps forward, close enough to smell the bubbling tension surrounding Stiles. “You inferred that there were other times.”

Stiles stares him down, an underlying fear in the teen keeping him hesitant, but an overpowering stubbornness forcing him to answer. “Well, you do!” he finally blurts out. “You let them do whatever they want, Derek. As long as they don’t kill anyone and show up for training, you don’t get involved at all. And they won’t change- they won’t become a _pack_ if you give them that much free reign. Especially Jackson and Lydia, because, well, _Jackson_ and _Lydia_.” Stiles takes a deep breath and swallows audibly after his little speech, back pushed as far is it can go into the chair. “This won’t work if _you_ don’t put in the effort necessary,” he adds, voice now smaller and quieter. 

Derek nods, considering. He can’t quite hide the smirk growing on his face, but then again, he’s too enthused to care at the moment. “Then you put in the effort for me.” He pitches his voice lower, crowding in around Stiles in front of him. The others can probably hear him still, but he doesn’t particularly care. “Have some ideas for how to strengthen the pack for me, and I’ll be by to talk about them tomorrow.” 

Stiles finally shrugs awkwardly after a few tense moments of silence, standing up (and carefully avoiding Derek’s body as he does so) with forced nonchalance. “Whatever. If you want me to run your little werebabies’ lives, then fine. No arguments here.” 

Derek stands back, giving the other enough space to move away. 

Stiles laughs nervously in the ensuing silence. “Yeah,” he starts, dragging out the end of the word unsurely, “I’m gonna go now.” 

“Wait,” Derek calls out, right before Stiles exits out the door. He throws the ice-pack he found at the teen, watching as he  clumsily catches it. “For your hand.”

“Oh,” Stiles breathes out, brown eyes huge. “Thanks.”

~*~*~*~*~*

Derek misses his family every day. 

He misses his family, but it’s Laura’s absence that still makes him feel raw and open at times, the wolf pulsating and roaring underneath his skin with anger. He wasn’t supposed to be an alpha- he was never trained to be a leader, and he took direction much better than he ever gave it. So the absence of his sister, of the one person he could always trust to have the answer, he feels it to his bones most days. 

Especially when it is clear that he has no idea what he’s doing with his pack. 

He’s not used to other werwolves anymore, he’s not attuned to their needs the way he should be. He only ever knew how to be a wolf around his sister, and that was family. This pack is... different from that, in all the ways that matter. 

And if he doesn’t know how to be around werwolves, he _really_ doesn’t know how to be around humans. Because the subtleties of social interaction have mostly failed him in life, and he never went out searching for other companions through his late teens and twenties. He preferred solitude or Laura’s company, so when it comes to the human pack members he’s very much lost most of the time. 

And the thing about Stiles- the most _important_ thing about him- is that he’s the essence of human. And Derek mostly doesn’t know how to deal with that, but he wants to learn so badly it hurts. Because this isn’t like his pack, who have no choice other than to listen to him. Stiles really doesn’t have anything other than Scott tying him to Derek, so the worry that he might mess this up is very, very real. 

So if Derek treads a little too carefully and guards himself a little excessively, well, it’s not like anyone but him will know. 

~*~*~*~*~*

Derek comes over that first night with a bag of junk food in one hand and a milkshake in the other. He climbs in through the window, landing with a soft thud on the ground. Stiles, with over-exaggerated hand movements and flailing limbs, welcomes him sarcastically into the room. “Do you seriously not know how to use a door?” 

Derek shrugs. Honestly, he just prefers seeing Stiles like this, caught off-guard and erratic heartbeat, a flush of adrenaline flowing through his body. He isn’t about to tell Stiles that, though. 

Stiles snorts, already calming down. “Yeah, yeah, dark mysterious werewolf routine, why would I ever expect an actual answer? So anyway, I found some stuff- hey, what is that?” he asks, finally catching sight of the food. 

Derek chucks the bag at him and takes a long sip from the milkshake. “For you.”

“Huh? Really?” Stiles tears open the bag, already digging through its contents as he sits down at his desk. His hands still suddenly, and he looks up with suspicious eyes. “They’re not poisoned, right?” 

Derek narrows his eyes, ignoring the twinge of hurt he feels at the accusation. “If you don’t want it-”

“No! No, I want it, thank you very much!” The sounds of food being sloppily eaten fills Derek’s ears, and he’d never thought he’d actually enjoy it, but he does. He lays down on Stiles’ bed, allowing the smell of the other to surround him for a while. 

“So what brought this on?” 

“Hm?” Derek asks unconcernedly. 

“The food. Why’d you bring it for me?”

Derek turns his head sideways, staring at Stiles for a few seconds. He has a strange expression on his face, one full of wonder and curiosity, but also of something else. Like he’s expecting something from Derek, something Derek’s not sure he can deliver. 

He flounders against that look, wonders what it is exactly he should do, so he simply goes back to staring at the ceiling and says, “You‘re doing me a favor. I’m bringing you food to pay you back.”

He hears a soft sigh and a strange chuckle, one not brought on by amusement. Derek feels his grip on the sheets beneath him tighten. “Like a Lannister, huh? You always pay your debts.” 

Derek huffs in confusion. “Lannister?”

“Oh god, please tell me you’ve heard of Game of Thrones! A Song of Fire and Ice? Best show and books ever written? Ring any bells?”

“None,” Derek answers dryly. 

“Blasphemy!” Stiles continues to ramble, exclaiming at Derek’s ignorance of the greatness that is George R.R. Martin. Derek doesn’t mind, though, because that soft undertone of discontent in Stiles’ voice is gone now. 

~*~*~*~*~*

The next day, Derek heads out to the Barnes and Noble in town. He grabs a random person with a name tag and growls at them, “Game of Thrones.”

The salesperson stares for a bit, but soon enough he’s moving about the store quickly. Derek gets a stack of books and a season one disk set pushed into his arms, and he’s on his way back home within minutes. 

He digs into the books first, because he figures it’d be easier to understand the show if he does so. He reads the first one in a day, devouring the novel almost greedily. The next day, he heads over to Jackson’s house and borrows the kid’s laptop, having no TV or computer of his own. 

Jackson eventually comes in search of it later in the day, grumbling at Derek to give it back. Derek ignores him, far too engrossed in the show to even bother, and soon enough, Jackson leaves once again.

Derek watches the entire season and begins the second book by the third day, and he doesn’t even enjoy it in all honesty. He doesn’t like the concept all too much, all of the fantasy elements mixing in with medieval politics. Too much mystical stuff hinders his enjoyment of anything because he _lives_ in a world where the supernatural does exist, and he’s also not one for mind games at all. But he can definitely see why Stiles enjoys it so much; all of the political intrigue and intellectual matches are right up his alley, and while not Derek’s style, he can enjoy the material based on the merits that Stiles sees. 

It’s kind of pathetic, he realizes later, how he jumped at the opportunity to have something to talk about with Stiles. But he can’t bring himself to regret his choice because as he sits through agonizing hours of literature and TV, he feels just a little bit closer to the teen. 

~*~*~*~*~*

The next time he shows up in Stiles’ room, he waits while the teen finishes up the betas’ training plans he drafted for Derek. Stiles said that he has to focus some one-on-one time with each member, helping them improve the skills they’re lacking in while simultaneously strengthening the bond between beta and alpha. He also thinks that group training should take the back burner for a while, to let tensions ease down between everybody. Derek’s not sure he agrees on this- loyalty needs to be shared between the entire pack, and not just reserved for the alpha- but he’ll follow Stiles’ lead on this for now. 

He spends most of the time on Stiles’ bed, once again listening to the him rant in between bits of his burger. Derek lays there, trying to remain nonchalant while trying to figure out how to mention Stiles’ favorite books. He wants to bring up Game of Thrones, wants to watch Stiles’ face brighten with enthusiasm, but he doesn’t know _how._

He wants to do this right _,_ wants to show Stiles that he’s interested and invested enough to get involved in Stiles’ hobbies. Every time he opens his mouth to say anything, though, he feels his throat close up as if he were some shy preteen talking in front of a crowd. 

Derek _knows_ what he wants to say- he knows that he wants to tell Stiles how his house would be Tully because the teen clearly stands for “Family, Honor, Duty”, just like their motto. He wants to ask Stiles who his favorite character is, who his favorite house is, who his favorite actor is. He wants to ask if Stiles enjoys the show as much as the books, and whether he likes the casting choices. 

He has this entire list of questions he wants to ask Stiles, a plethora of things he wants to discuss (because, after all, wasn’t this why he spent all that time researching this for?), but he can’t. He feels tense and uncomfortable in his own skin, unsure of what to say or do. Worst of all, he doesn’t know whether Stiles would be receptive to his questioning- after all, Derek knows they don’t have the best rapport between them. 

He hates these feelings of insecurity more than anything, because an alpha should never be unsure. So instead of talking about dragons and magic, he shoves Stiles up against the nearest wall and orders him to shut up and start talking about the pack. 

~*~*~*~*~*

A routine starts forming, built mostly out of Derek’s death threats and Stiles’ inability to say no. 

Derek will approach Stiles once a week, usually a Monday or Tuesday, depending on pack meetings and such. Derek’ll then slink in through the window, occasionally bearing food, and always requesting something or the other. 

And at first, it’s the perfect situation for Derek. Stiles prepares thorough training sessions, composed for each werewolf in mind. And he draws up charts and diagrams, explaining the current pack dynamics in explicit detail. He even makes lists of bonding ideas for Derek, ranging from board games to laser tag. 

All of this keeps Stiles busy for a few months, well into November, but then the pack starts to actually come together. The enforced movie nights (one of Derek’s ideas, actually) eases the way into comfortableness for the group, and the individual training sessions come a long way in teaching the betas to obey and respect Derek. And he should be happy that his pack is uniting, knitting together the way they should be, but he kind of wishes they’d do it a little slower. 

Because at the rate they’re going, he won’t have any reason to come to Stiles week after week requesting methods for his betas to behave.  And he can’t go back to only seeing Stiles at pack meetings because he likes these moments with Stiles, likes having him to himself for a couple of hours every week. 

So in his fit of desperation, he heads up to Stiles’ room one day and demands all the information the teen can find on elves. 

There’s no reason for Derek to want the information, because he already knows enough about elves to get by- he knows how to kill them, track them, their weaknesses, and their strengths. But Stiles doesn’t know he knows, so he simply tells Stiles that it’s important and to work as hard as he can, while Derek lurks in the corner making sure he gets it done. He’s not proud of his tactics, but it works; he gets to see Stiles every week, requesting information there is no immediate need for. 

(Derek even asks for information on vampires one day, face somber and serious. When Stiles is done compiling three week’s worth of research, body tired and hair frazzled with stress-induced pulling, Derek reveals with a smirk that vampires don’t exist. 

Stiles chucks a Twilight book at his head while he jumps of the window, shoulders shaking in mirth.)

He hates how he gets around Stiles, hates how it reduces him to acting like a mischievous child, but he can’t help himself. And that, he thinks, is the worst part. 

__

~*~*~*~*~*

When Derek thinks of Kate, he never goes to Stiles. 

(It happens a couple times, like when he catches a whiff of the perfume she liked to wear, a sickly sweet scent that makes his stomach roll uneasily. He’s supposed to meet with Stiles later that day, but instead he heads home and runs around the woods to his heart’s content, an irresistible urge to smother himself in the smell of the earth overloading his senses.)

He wonders if his reluctance is indicative of something, ponders the idea that he might not be any better than his own tormentor. 

But he also reasons that he’s not actually doing anything wrong, that it’s not a crime to spend time with an underage teen when they’re only talking. There is a world of difference between fourteen and almost-seventeen, and besides, his goal is nothing similar to Kate’s. 

(And yet he can never shake the thought that what he’s doing isn’t entirely innocent, either; he’s going to Stiles’ home with intent, and while it may be enough to bask in Stiles’ company _now_ , it might not be enough later. But he won’t think of it, because that way lies sleepless nights and madness and-)

When he thinks of Kate, he never goes to Stiles. Despite this, he can’t help the way he clenches up with self-disgust and hatred, be it for Kate or himself; he doesn’t quite know.

~*~*~*~*~*

They do this for more than a year, and Derek doesn’t know where it’s going and he’s also not sure he’s happy with where they’re at. They snipe at each, banter and argue, but they’re still unsure around one another in ways that Derek doesn’t know how to fix. He _should_ be content with what he has with Stiles, happy that he at least gets a few hours a week alone with him, but he hates this feeling of stasis that he has around the teen, always wondering where exactly their relationship is moving. 

The thing is, Derek knows he is attractive and that Stiles is attracted to him. He can smell the light scent of arousal oozing off of Stiles when they spend time together, but he doesn’t know how Stiles _feels._ Doesn’t know if being good-looking is enough to make up for his utterly lacking personality. 

He thinks Stiles knows he’s making an effort, but it’s not easy for him, and he hopes Stiles understands that as well. 

 So he trudges along like this for a year, watches as Stiles compiles report after report on useless supernatural creatures, and he admires from his little corner in the room, tracing moles with his eyes and counting flecks of colors in honey-brown eyes. It’s not ideal or perfect or anything remotely _normal,_ but Derek is trying. He’s trying and so what little time he can manage to wrangle out of the boy, what little he can hold onto, he will cherish and count himself lucky. 

~*~*~*~*~*

So when it finally happens, Derek isn’t expecting it at all. 

It’s September and Stiles is just starting his senior year. He’s been busier with both schoolwork and lacrosse, and Derek can admit that maybe he’s a little bothered by how little time Stiles has for him. So when he shows up in Stiles’ room, only to get _denied_ , well. 

He gets a little aggravated. 

“I have a _life_ , Derek. I know the concept is completely foreign to you, but to some of us that kind of thing is important. Hence, _no_ I won’t do research for you today!” 

“You will,” Derek growls, advancing slowly, “by tonight.” 

“ _No._ Listen, I can probably look at it tomorrow, but that’s the best I can do. _”_ Stiles is flushed, horribly so, but he doesn’t back down despite how much he obviously wants to. Derek feels his eyes flicker, a bit of red shining through as his temper flares. He can’t help himself, though. He hates having to do this, practically _forcing_ Stiles to spend a little time with him, but he refuses to think about it and instead _acts_. 

__

He slams his palm against the wall right next to Stiles’ head and Derek leans close, breath skimming lightly over Stiles’ cheeks. “You’ll do it,” he says, voice low, “by tonight.” In such close proximity, he can practically feel the blood pumping through Stiles, the way his heart beats erratically. The sweet scent of arousal tickles under his nose, but he forces himself to hold tight. 

__

Stiles stares back defiantly, heart thrumming along, and breathes out, “Make me.”

Derek’s eyes widen slightly, surprise filtering through his system at a frightening rate. While he knew that Stiles was attracted to him, he’d never been sure that the feelings were fully reciprocated. But here, here the teen was, giving Derek permission. Permission to do what he’s wanted to do for more than a year. 

Before he fully realizes what he’s doing, he’s pushed Stiles onto the bed and crowded him in, grabbing his flailing hands and pushing them up above Stiles’ head in a strong hold. He’s happy in this moment, ready to take anything he’s given with a greedy need he’s never felt before. He can feel Stiles underneath him, his hardness sending sparks of pleasure up Derek’s spine. 

“Oh my god, oh my god, I was just kidding, don’t do anything rash here, I’ll do anything you want, _Derek!”_  

Derek wants to laugh at the way Stiles seems to freak out over nothing, the teen always jumping to the wrong conclusions. But the scent of Stiles’ arousal is too much to ignore, and he growls out a quick “shut up” before he starts scenting the human below him in earnest. 

His perusal of Stiles quickly turns into kisses and bites, his tongue laving at the teen’s pulse point for several moments. Nothing has ever seemed as important as marking Stiles in that moment; he sucked at moles, dropping admiring kisses onto untainted skin, and wanting to mark it _himself._ Once satisfied, he pulls back from his work to whisper roughly, “Anything I want, Stiles?”

The blush that coats Stiles’ face and neck is beautiful, and Derek _yearns_ to find out where else he turns red in embarrassment. But he waits patiently, waits for the permission that he _needs_ from Stiles in order for him to continue. 

So when Stiles nods, Derek just lets _go._

He kisses Stiles, their lips coming together in a chaste but clumsy union. But once Stiles submits by opening his mouth so shyly- and he does so _exquisitely-_ Derek can’t reign himself in. He just plunders, mapping out the territory of Stiles’ mouth, mapping out _Derek’s_ territory because now that he has Stiles, he knows he will never let go of him willingly. 

He’s desperate for more, itching to rid of all the clothes separating them. He pulls back to start undressing himself before focusing on Stiles, who needs to be naked _now_. 

And this, sex, is becoming something it never was before to Derek; it’s _fun._ He’s excited to get naked, and he wants to smile at Stiles’ stupid jokes (Derek will never admit that being called Tarzan makes him bite back a laugh), and he’s a bit blindsided by this because fucking has never been for anything but pleasure with him, and right now, at this moment- he’s _enjoying_ this. 

Not that it isn’t pleasurable, either, because the way that Stiles starts writhing and moaning against him, pleading for _more,_ has Derek all twisted and desperate as well. So he asks Stiles, his own expression overcome with lust, for lube. 

Derek has to forcibly smother his smile, though, at the way Stiles somehow flushes _more_ (and he’s so pretty like that, all pale skin with redness creeping in, Derek’s own personal canvas to mark at his desire) and practically vaults to the drawer in search of lube and condoms. 

He’s a bit hasty at first, working a finger in too quickly, but he slows it down until Stiles is nudging his hips downwards into it. He teases, thumb circling Stiles’ entrance with gentle touches while his index finger searches out his prostate. He adds a second finger in slowly, and soon, he has Stiles gripping his shoulders tightly and moaning. 

Derek pumps them in at a steady pace, but Stiles is too desperate and needy for that, his body thrusting with force and intent against the fingers. He brings one palm up against Stiles’ stomach, at first in an attempt to get the other to hold still, but in seconds Derek is distracted by the trail of course hair drifting from Stiles’ naval downwards. He curls his fingers in the short hairs, experimentally tugging, when he drops down to lick around Stiles’ bellybutton. 

He gets a shiver in response and he grins, satisfied with how receptive Stiles is. He brings a third finger around the edges of Stiles’ rim, pushing slowly at the entrance, while he begins to kiss and suck marks onto slim hips. 

Stiles moans, body trembling with the desire to grind down. His hand trails down, gripping at Derek’s hair in a clearly hesitant grip, and Derek can’t help but bite down a little harder on the skin before him. “Co- come on, Derek, come _on_!” He grins into Stiles’ skin, dropping one last kiss before leaning back. 

He puts the condom on quickly and inches forward, both hands pushing Stiles’ legs wide and apart from the underside of his knees. He huffs out a pleased sigh as he enters Stiles, the impossible heat and tightness around him overwhelming him momentarily. “So tight,” he breathes out into Stiles’ shoulder, bending Stiles beautifully. 

“That’s what happens when you’re fucking a virgin,” sings Stiles, his humor falling flat in the intensity of the scene. 

Derek stops, grip tightening as his heart pounds loudly against his chest. He can’t imagine being this lucky, can’t hold in the triumph that sneaks in at the thought that only he has touched the body beneath him. He should have known, of course, given the aura of inexperience Stiles is giving off, and even when they kissed- 

“First kiss, too?” he asks, trying not too let too much of his hope slide through his voice. He wouldn’t have cared if Stiles had touched a hundred people in his life, but the fact that now, Derek has all of this bright and beautiful person all to himself, and _only_ to himself- he feels elated and giddy and things no respected alpha should ever be feeling. 

“Yes, but I had to bat people off with a stick, got that? I’m a picky guy,” Stiles mumble, face flushed a pretty red and lips pouting, begging Derek to kiss them. 

He breathes in quickly, exhaling air in order to counteract the head-rush he feels at the other’s admittance. He gets that Stiles is mostly joking, but to know that he _saved_ himself, as if he’s always been waiting for Derek to come and claim him, has him reaching the dangerous brink of control. After a few moments, however, he begins to move, waiting for the boy to adjust to the feeling of being filled. 

Stiles keeps grimacing and wincing despite the slow pace, so he tries to angle himself differently, letting one hand lay flat on the bed, close enough to Stiles’ arm to caress it. He slides the other hand farther up Stiles’ thigh, his own knees bent and taking most of the teen’s lower body weight. He thrusts forward experimentally, hoping to find Stiles’ prostrate, when Stiles clenches down so suddenly on he sees stars. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, rhythm momentarily stuttered. Stiles is now clutching at his shoulders, though, mouth gaping in wide-eyed pleasure. 

“Do that _again_ ,” he demands, squirming and clinging to Derek. 

He grins softly, feeling accomplished at the blissed-out expression on Stiles’ face. He starts thrusting again, hips canting and chest heaving fractionally with restraint. It doesn’t take long for Stiles to bring up a leg around Derek, heel digging into his lower back, voice wrecked as he says, “ _Harder_ , please, come on, you’re driving me _crazy_ , sourwolf!”

And there it is, that surge of affection he can’t help but always feel around Stiles, and all he wants to do is make this the good for Stiles, make this a moment he’ll always look back to fondly. He picks up speed, keeping his hips at the right angle so he brushes against Stiles’ spot every time. 

He sits upright and trails his free hand across Stiles’ chest, memorizing moles and blemishes and clean, perfect skin, his blunt nails leaving small red lines of disturbed skin in their wake. Stiles arches into his touch, his own fingers digging into arms and shoulders with force. 

Derek bends his head down, sucking at the same spots his hand touched, wanting to leave his mark on Stiles, wanting to let everyone know this person chose _him_ , Derek, and no one else. Stiles uses this as an opportunity to cling to his shoulders, arms wound tight around his neck in an effort gain leverage and push back down against Derek. 

“Fuck’s sake.” Stiles is groaning and gasping in turns, unable to do much but arch his back and grind against him. If Derek weren’t so aroused and preoccupied, he’d be strongly amused by Stiles’ blatant inexperience, the clumsy way he tries to follow the rhythm. 

Stiles comes like that, back bent towards him and eyes screwed shut, not a hand laid on his cock. And Derek, well, he can’t help the proud grin that marks his face, but it’s quickly wiped away when Stiles starts clenching down on him, oversensitive from his orgasm and the longevity of their fucking. 

Derek keeps going, though, and brings a slightly trembling hand up to brush against Stiles’ chest, digging his fingers in cum and trailing them upwards, outlining the curve of Stiles’ lips. They’d look perfect wrapped around his dick, but Derek would have to teach him, wouldn’t he, because Stiles is new to all of this, and that thought completely _undoes_ him. 

It’s what finally brings him over the edge, the idea that _he’ll_ teach Stiles how to suck cock, just like he’ll teach Stiles how to kiss and fuck and _be_ with another person. But what makes this sweeter than anything, what makes it _better_ , is the fact that Stiles will only ever be with him _after_ this.  

When he starts coming down from his high, though, a silence settles that he doesn’t quite know how to fill. He hears Stiles sigh contently, and Derek gets up, grabbing his clothes and cleaning up in the bathroom in order to have something to do. 

And this is what he constantly fretted about, this is what plagued him when he first started getting to know Stiles; Derek doesn’t know how to _do_ this, doesn’t know much more than the physical aspect when being with someone, and this is more than that, much more. He pauses inside the bathroom, staring at his reflection in the mirror with hesitancy. This is important, he _knows_ this- recognizes the magnitude of the fact that they just started an _actual relationship-_ and he also knows that he’s not _good_ with this, his inexperience so obvious that it’s the proverbial pink elephant in the room. 

So he walks out and throws out a gruff, “So you’ll have the research done tonight?” He’s practicing avoidance, and it’s cowardly, he knows, but Stiles also knows _him_. And Stiles should understand by now that things don’t always come so easily for him, and this, well. 

All Derek is asking for is a little patience, while he gets the hang of things, the hang of having someone in his life like this. So when Stiles starts rebutting him, saying, “Um, I really do have a ton of homework-”, Derek cuts him off in misplaced anger. 

“Do it. That’s what I came for, and I won’t be coming back to tell you again.” 

He sighs, though, because Stiles doesn’t deserve such an incompetent partner. He moves forward a little bit, close enough to the bed to reach over and touch Stiles. He just wants Stiles to understand him, to get that Derek isn’t _really_ talking research here, because that’s never what this was about. He can’t find his words, though, never all that good at expressing himself like Stiles, and he frustratingly runs a hand through his hair. “Listen, I have to go-”

Stiles smiles, though, and something relaxes in him. “No, yeah, I get it.” Of course he did, because Stiles is always so _clever_. Of course he’d understand that Derek needed this. “I’ll have your research done by tonight, it’ll be in my mailbox in the morning, ok? No worries.” There’s a little laugh there at the end of his sentence, and Derek can’t help himself.  He leans forward,  brimming with fondness and affection, dropping one last soft kiss to the teen’s lips before slipping out of the room. 

If Derek smiles the entire way home, well, that’s no one’s business but his own. 

~*~*~*~*~*

He watches Stiles the next morning, smelling the poignant smell of deodorant, soap, shampoo, and a myriad of other products the teen had utilized in his attempt to mask his smell. Derek frowns as the teen makes his way to school, avoiding Scott and Jackson with ease in the morning. 

Derek stays throughout the whole day, lingering in the shadows, observing how Stiles pointedly sits next to Allison and Danny at lunch. An idea begins to form, and he’s mostly sure he’s right, but he decides to keep watching either way. 

He just can’t imagine Stiles being the kind to be discreet, but Derek will give him, give him everything he needs, if Derek is honest with himself. Because in a way, it does follow logic that Stiles would be hesitant about this with others, reserved about their relationship because this thing was _new_ and technically, Stiles’s entire group of friends are his _pack._

__

There’s also the issue of Stiles’ being out, and while Derek has never given his own sexuality a second thought, he knows it’s not as easy for humans. Because Stiles has his father and friends to worry about, and while Derek knows they would all accept the teen in a heartbeat, it doesn’t change the fact that Stiles needs to do this himself, when _he_ wants to. 

__

Derek doesn’t want to pressure Stiles in any way; quite the contrary, he wants Stiles to set the relationship to his _own_ terms. So when he hears Jackson and Scott in the parking lot, sniffing at Stiles’ neck in curiosity, he intervenes. 

“Hey, you know, you smell off today,” Jackson says. Scott agrees reluctantly, also inching up behind Stiles in order to scent him. 

“Shut up, both of you,” he says, pitching his voice so as to reach his betas easily. “Pack meeting today, don’t mention Stiles’ scent again. Wait for my text.” He packs enough authority into his voice to expect immediate submission, but he still doesn’t leave until Stiles is fortunately on his way home, alone. 

(He pointedly ignores the way Stiles’ scent for a second screamed fear, anxiety, and _sadness,_ all at the thought of others knowing about last night. He doesn’t know how to deal with that, doesn’t know how to _fix_ that, so he squares his shoulders and gives Stiles the space he so much desires. After that, everything should be fine.)

~*~*~*~*~*

He talks to the pack later that day. It goes well. 

(“So I’m guessing this has to do with the fact that you and Stiles finally did the deed?” Lydia starts, inspecting her nails nonchalantly from her seat by the stairway. 

Scott balks. “Is that what the smell was?”

Derek growls while Lydia snorts disdainfully. “The point of this was to let you all know that under no circumstance will you let on. That you know. About... us.” Derek clears his throat, uncomfortable by his speech and trying to hide it. 

“Wow, did admitting that, like, hurt or something? It looked like it hurt.” Jackson elbows Scott lightly, trying to get the other teen in on the joke, but Scott only stares at Derek, mouth wide open and eyes huge in shock. 

Derek scowls, crossing his arms and standing up straight, aiming his body so as to appear fearsome. At the group’s unimpressed looks, he gives up and decides to just go for broke. “Look, Stiles is not ready to be... open about this, and just because he’s surrounded by werewolves, doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a right to privacy. So don’t hint at anything, don’t make jokes, and let him come to you when he needs to. You all need to respect him on this, ok?”

There’s silence for a moment, before Danny snickers and says, “You’re a real boy, now, Pinocchio!”)

So that’s that, then. 

~*~*~*~*~*

Derek comes back to Stiles’ room two days later and no words are spoken. They have sex, though, and Derek revels in it, enjoys expressing himself in the one area he’s good at, fingers itching to mark and possess as if they were made for this, as if this were their only purpose. And Derek loves it, the idea that he can bring Stiles so much pleasure with a few touches. 

And for him, this is the perfect way to convey his feelings. He knows that Stiles is understanding of his inability to convey his feelings like a normal person, but in bed, Derek gets to share himself in ways he can’t do with words. With soft kisses on shoulders he tell Stiles that he’s fond of him, and tiny nips tell him that Derek wants him, more than enough to mark him as his own. Every thrust speaks of affection, every too-hard grip an exclamation of _mine_ and _partner,_ and every easy embrace an ode to Stiles’ being, fragile yet strong, resilient and so easily breakable. 

This is how they spend the second night, wrapped in silence save for frantic gasps and pleadings for more. And Derek assumes that it’s for him, that Stiles won’t interrupt their time together with words and declarations of feelings because he knows that Derek’s not there yet. 

Derek is grateful for this at first, but soon enough, he’s puzzled as well. 

And it’s not just the second time they have sex that Stiles does this. Stiles turns away from caresses and gentle kisses all the time now, his face clouded and troubled whenever Derek pushes too much. Stiles is receptive to aggression and passion, Derek has figured that much out, the teen moaning appreciatively whenever he’s gripped tight and bitten, soft flesh turning red with bruises. But when Derek tries to be gentle, when he kisses slowly up Stiles’ body with the kind of attention the act deserves, the teen will undoubtedly tense. Every single time, Derek’s actions are met with rigidity and tenseness and he’s at the end of his rope. 

Derek had originally thought that this was all for him, that Stiles’ distant behavior was a reflection of what he thought Derek needed. Now, though, now he knows it’s more than that.

Stiles is loud and abrasive in pack meetings but quiet and subdued when they’re together. Derek doesn’t understand how to fix that; doesn’t know how to make Stiles comfortable enough in his presence to even _talk._ The teen barely looks at him when Derek visits him, and aside from the first night, Stiles hasn’t even been snarky _once._

It confuses and hurts him, but Derek, like always, doesn’t have the balls to bring it up. 

~*~*~*~*~*

“Oh,” Stiles mutters, face buried in Derek’s neck. “There.”

Derek grunts in agreement, curving his three fingers up and around Stiles’ prostate once more. His body would be straining by now if he weren’t a werewolf, and he hits his head back against the wall in pleasure as Stiles’ cock, red and hard with pre-cum coating the shaft and head, rubs between their stomachs in tantalizing rhythm with Derek’s hand. 

Stiles’ legs open up a bit more, his position in Derek’s lap allowing him to curl himself around Derek in an obscene manner. “Do it,” Stiles urges, voice cracking with desperate need. 

He sighs, reaching for the already opened condom in order to put it on. It’s clumsy and there’s a bit of fumble with Stiles obstinately blocking his view, but Derek manages it after a minute or two. His patience is thin, though, so he just lifts Stiles by his hips and positions him on top of his cock. 

Derek eases him down slowly and it’s obvious that Stiles wants more, a faster descent so Derek can be in him up to the hilt. The smaller teen is clawing at his shoulders, nails digging in so hard that even Derek feels a twinge. 

But despite the way Stiles wriggles in his grasp and clutches at him, Derek keeps the pace brutally slow, inching his cock in at such a pace that has Stiles finally choking out, “Are you fucking _kidding_ me?”

Derek hides his grin in short cropped hair. His grip loosens, then, and he lets Stiles dictate the rhythm. And Stiles takes to it wonderfully, head thrown back now, pupils blown wide, and hips slamming down to take him whole. 

Stiles goes crazy, bouncing so enthusiastically that the obscene sound of skin slapping skin is deafening in the silence. And Derek just leans back and takes in Stiles, his body drenched in sweat and pre-cum, moles and freckles and blemishes dotting his features. His honey eyes are snapped closed, and his short hair has been growing a bit more, Derek notices, and his lips look absolutely delectable, bitten red and swollen. 

It’s the last thought that brings Derek forward, reaching to drop a chaste and gentle kiss on Stiles’ lips. And they do kiss for a moment, Stiles pliant and pleasure-ridden on top of him, but before soon, he feels the now familiar turn of Stiles’ head, Derek’s lips now touching cheek instead. Stiles goes back to his previous position, head safely in Derek’s neck and arms wound tightly around his shoulders. 

But instead of feeling the pain of rejection- or, well, instead of _only_ feeling the pain of rejection- Derek feels the urge to say three words he hasn’t wanted to say in years. 

He wants to tell Stiles that he loves him, loves _all_ of him. Derek loves him even when he doesn’t understand him, loves him even though they’re both shit at relationships, loves him for his kisses and warmth even when Stiles rejects him and acts cold. And Derek’s finally figured it out, right now, balls deep in Stiles as the boy rides with abandon, that this will _work_ because Derek will do anything for Stiles, _be_ anything for Stiles, just as long as Stiles will have him. 

It’s too soon, though, to say the words, even if he could manage the courage to do so. He knows Stiles must understand by now how serious Derek is about him, so the words aren’t needed- especially because he knows it’ll pressure Stiles. If the teen can’t even share a bit of physical intimacy, then _love_ is definitely off the table, and Derek forces himself not to be disappointed by the situation. 

So for now, Derek is taking what he can get, stealing kisses as if he were a world-class con artist and leaving gentle caresses when he thinks he can get away with it.

~*~*~*~*~*

They’re in the middle of a pack meeting and Derek can’t keep his eyes off of Stiles for more than a few minutes. He watches as every time Stiles turns to talk to Jackson or Scott, he moves his neck just _so_ , exposing the large bite mark Derek left last night. It’s an unavoidably large hickey, so prominent against the teen’s pale skin that it immediately catches everyone’s gaze as soon as the meeting began. 

Stiles can’t be that oblivious, that _unaware_ , that he doesn’t know what he’s doing. So Derek knows that this is for him, knows that Stiles is offering something in return for everything that he’s not ready to do yet. And Derek loves it, appreciates it, the way he can hear the uncomfortable shifting Scott does or the way Allison has avoided looking in Stiles’ direction since she saw the mark. His wolf rumbles in contentment, his mark of possession in clear view of his pack, his territory claimed and spoken for. 

So if he can’t hold in his eagerness to _fuck_ when the pack finally leaves, well, it’s not like it’s his fault. He was _provoked_. 

He makes his move when Stiles goes into the kitchen, responsibly cleaning up after the pack like the caretaker he tends to be, and Derek stalks in after him. 

He sinks to his knees easily, trapping Stiles between him and the countertop, fingers making quick work of the human’s jeans. He drags them down, Stiles’ startled gasp breaking the silence, and Derek just leans forward and takes Stiles down to the base in one move. 

This is only the second time that Derek’s done this to Stiles, and it makes his blood boil with arousal at the very thought of taking Stiles in his mouth. Derek has never had too many partners, in all honesty, and even fewer had been men. And this, sucking cock as if he’s aching for it, nose tucked into pubic hairs that smell lightly of soap and sweat, he’s never done. Never dared to, really, because sex wasn’t about experimenting and giving his partner pleasure, back then. Sex was about release and urges, and an underlying urge to prove that he simply _could_ (because Kate couldn’t take everything away from him, he wouldn’t let her). 

But _this_ , this he does enjoy, despite the inexperienced fumbling he still struggles with when it comes to moments like these. He pulls back a quick moment, staring up at the delightful picture Stiles provides, eyes shut and hands white-knuckled as he clenches the counter. 

Derek grins and drags his tongue slowly across the veins, licking and kissing Stiles’ cock in turns. Hips stutter, the teen trying to stop himself from thrusting forward and Derek can’t stop wonderful image that gives him, Stiles spread out wide open before him, begging to be filled and _taken_.  

He brings his mouth back around the head, swirling his tongue around it before sucking harshly. Stiles arches forward, fingers still grasping at the counter, but only barely; he’s moaning and Derek can’t take his time anymore, refuses to, so he starts bobbing his head at a steady pace, his fingers curved around the hips in front of him, digging bruises into soft skin. 

Stiles comes soon after, and Derek swallows it and licks after the cum he misses, eyes intent on the task at hand. Once he’s done, he pulls Stiles’ shirt roughly, forcing him over his shoulder and rising easily. He heads into his bedroom, taking the stairs two at a time, and watches as Stiles bounces on the mattress when he puts him down. 

They get right down to it, Derek’s impatience and lust taking over more than usual. He throws off his clothes at a less-than-human speed, tugging and yanking at the teen’s clothes as well. He frowns when Stiles prefers getting on his hands and knees, always enjoying being able to see the other’s face, but he concedes, coating his fingers with his emergency lube and scissoring him open carefully. 

They fuck and it’s _good_ , Stiles’ pleading voice and lithe body driving him desperate with need and want, and not for the first time Derek feels gratitude and contentment at the new life he leads. He kisses softly at Stiles’ back, nuzzling his face in the curve of his back and up his spine into his neck, redness from his scruff following his trail. 

He gets up and heads into the bathroom, cleaning himself up quickly and efficiently. He’s about to head out, wash cloth in hand, to clean and go over every inch of Stiles when he hears it. 

“How could you live like that?” 

He’s the doorway in an instant, and it’s clear Stiles didn’t mean to say it out loud, his now-flushed face and erratic heartbeat giving him away. He doesn’t know what expression he has on his face, but Stiles starts spewing words quickly, stumbling over himself in order to explain. 

“I- I didn’t mean it like that, ok? I meant it in a total empathetic manner- _empathetic,_ not-not whatever you’re thinking _,_ please stop growling!- because you know, you live in this house that is slowly falling apart and it’s a bit of a creepy shrine to your family and I was just thinking that maybe it would be better if you rebuilt more because it’s not healthy ok, it’s been more than a decade, and I’m sure they wouldn’t want this for you and, and, and _oh my god please don’t kill me!_ ”

He can’t help it- his pain has been his alone for so many years, and he growls and his eyes glow and his fangs lengthen and his anger _rises_ so quickly that he has to breathe, deep and long in order to feel in control of himself again. It’s ridiculous, how easily his hackles rise with such a simple statement. He knows Stiles doesn’t mean to cause harm, can tell in the sincerity shining through his eyes, the way the teen’s anxiousness and miserableness is permeating the very air they’re breathing. Stiles isn’t trying to be anything other than helpful, and considering the fact they’re together now, Derek _should_ take everything Stiles says in consideration. 

Derek’s can’t be anything but himself, so he rages, as irrational as he might be in doing so. He carries righteous anger around with him as if it were a limb, and so it’s easy for him to look at Stiles, fists clenched and back coiled in preparation for a fight that isn’t coming, grunting out, “You should go.”

And as he watches the teen scramble for his things, actual _fear_ coming off of the one person he claims to _love_ , he yearns to tell Stiles to stop, to sit down, to lay there with him, because Derek knows this is his pain, has always been _his_ pain, but for the first time since Laura, he actually wants to share it. With Stiles. 

But he doesn’t.  

(And he has to think, really, seriously, _think_ , because at this rate, there are going to be more things he can’t, won’t, _doesn’t_ do and they’ll pile up and then where will he be, where will _Stiles_ be- because that’s the more important question- and also the question he doesn’t quite want to know the answer to.)

~*~*~*~*~*

It takes him longer than it should to make the decision. 

The fact of the matter is, Derek can’t afford to push Stiles away and keep him at a distance. It’s not fair, nor healthy, and he’s been wanting to do this _right_ since the very beginning. Stiles is right, because living in a burnt out shell of a home isn’t a life and that’s exactly what he’s trying to build with Stiles. 

It might be too soon for human standards, but he’s always known Stiles is it for him. Derek can feel it in his bones, the way Stiles has etched himself so entirely into everything Derek values- his heart, his pack, his _home_ \- and wolves mate for life, they _do_ , so he’s going to take the step, no matter how hard it may seem. 

He’s going to do this because Stiles asked him to, because _he_ needs to, because this-

This is all he has to offer, really, a home and a pack and himself. It’s not a lot, but it’s also not insignificant, and he hopes Stiles will see that. See that Derek is _trying,_ desperately and pathetically, to do right by him and to provide for him and to show that he’s willing to do anything for him, anything at all. 

~*~*~*~*~*

He comes by that same night, waving aside Stiles’ well-meant apologies, and doesn’t say any of what he wants to. 

He doesn’t say _I’m sorry for scaring you_ or _I would never hurt you_ or _I love you so much it hurts_ or _I want to make a life with you._

He doesn’t say anything other than, “Don’t come by. For a while. Ok?” because he doesn’t need to, because it wouldn’t come out right anyway, and he’s not good with words, never was and he guesses he never will be. 

For the first time, though, Derek doesn’t feel the pressure to talk. He kisses Stiles with a small smile on his face because he has a plan now, and it’ll be perfect. He just knows it. 

~*~*~*~*~*

It’s unsurprisingly easy (and suspiciously cheap) to get house permits when a Whittemore is involved. 

There’s very little to salvage and he doesn’t particularly want a carbon copy of his old home, so they tear down the house first thing. Derek lets Lydia and Jackson hire an architect, telling them to only keep the foundation, and design an entirely new house from the bottom up. He takes up a room at a cheap motel in the outskirts of town in the meantime, needing a shower and a place to stay without alerting Stiles or inconveniencing the rest of his pack. 

It’s costly, but being an economics student with connections has its advantages, so he simply dips into his untouched savings and moves investments around, and _finally_ takes a look into the cash he got from all of the insurance policies. 

 It hurts, but it’s less than what he expected. Because when he looks at all of the zeros and dollar signs, all he can think is that he’s going to do something with this, he’s going to make something _good._ And he won’t begrudge himself this because that would be punishing Stiles, so he signs checks and balances his books instead of thinking of fires and ash and bitter after-tastes. 

It works, mostly. It takes a couple of weeks, even with round the clock work, but they finally get a solid plan going for the house. It’s going to be a two story, but wide and with an attic. Seven bedrooms, which seems large but is actually nothing compared to the eleven of the previous Hale home. 

It’s good, though, because the way it’s set up allows for additions, in case the pack ever expands once again. The tricky part is finding a someone to _build_ the house, because at the end of the day, he’s just a kid with a college degree in numbers and his pack consists of teenagers. There’s no way in hell they can manage to build an entire _house_ without any help. 

So he digs through some of Laura’s old contacts, looks for someone nearby specializing in carpentering. He’s mostly unsuccessful, but luckily there’s an omega down in Nevada that can help him out, and he’s willing to make the move and everything on account of being on good terms with Laura. 

~*~*~*~*~*

The carpenter arrives in early October, and by that time the entire pack is already ridiculously excited about rebuilding Derek’s home. They’re also a little tense, given the lack of time they’ve been spending with Stiles due to his “banishment” from the Hale property, so they’re all also eager to get started and finish. 

The man is huge, towering over Derek easily, and he introduces himself with a grin and a strong handshake. “Alcide, nice to meet you.” He tips his head in deference to Derek, showing that he’s ceding power to the alpha with no problem. Derek nods, and the others flitter around the man, curious to meet another wolf not in their own pack (or hell-bent on killing them). The man isn’t one to dawdle, though, and they get right down to business. 

Derek can’t help but congratulate himself on choosing a werewolf to help them, once they get started. It’s efficient and everyone follows Alcide’s orders with ease, and they finish fixing the damaged concrete blocks and insulation in record time. 

Things go along smoothly from then on, the flooring well on its way and the electrical wiring currently in progress. 

“ _Derek!_ ” Lydia shrieks, “I quit, I _quit_! I refuse to work any longer with these _neanderthals._ If I have to listen to them ask about wood selections one more time, I will _neuter them_.” 

Things go along smoothly, for the _most_ part. 

Fights are routine at this point, but Derek still sighs. He can hear whimpers as he massages his temple slowly and with deliberate force. His pack is frustrating on the best of days, but it’s nearing Thanksgiving now and relations were extremely tense with the lack of Stiles. Things tended to get unbalanced within a pack when a member is missing for so long, but this was reaching ridiculous levels. Pack dynamics demanded constant interaction between members, and bonding was stilted when not everyone was present. 

They’re all fine at school, of course, but that was because Stiles was _there._ Derek’s the one who has to deal with their crap the rest of the time. 

“Derek!” called out Danny. “I would get in here if I were you!” 

He snaps the electrical box with enough force to break it before stomping back into the house, Alcide’s snort following him inside. 

He can’t wait until the damned house is finished. 

~*~*~*~*~*

It’s difficult to keep it from Stiles. 

It’s easier for him than it is for the pack, considering how close the group has been the last year. And because of this, it’s easy to see the signs of disgruntlement among them, especially Scott. The teen was surly and depressed more often than not, his usual carefree attitude consistently absent as the weeks wore on. 

It’s not just Scott, though, and Derek knows it. He won’t admit it to the group with words, but his own relationship with Stiles is suffering dramatically due to the project. Before, he’d have Stiles open and talking and smiling in pack meetings, and the teen’s demure personality at night wouldn’t bother him so much. 

But now, when Derek doesn’t get pack meetings and is barely available to go to bonding sessions with the pack, he rarely gets to interact with Stiles in a way that isn’t related to sex. 

Derek has mostly come to terms that the more intimate side of their relationship will be stilted and awkward and _quiet_ , at least for the foreseeable future, but he doesn’t handle well not having the side of Stiles he treasures the most. 

The Stiles that makes corny and raunchy jokes, who never shuts up unless he’s thinking, and even then, he’s a constant flurry of movement. The Stiles that quotes comic books and sci-fi movies as if it were a competition that he’s determined to win, who laughs with his whole body and chucks his head back with a wide-open mouth, uncaring of how aesthetic the movement appeared. The Stiles that banters with him, that challenges him, that stares him down and contradicts him with hesitation, the Stiles- 

The Stiles he doesn’t get at night- and don’t get him wrong, he loves Stiles, he _does_ \- but he can’t help missing the other side of the human as well. 

Because of this, he can’t help but concede that the pack is miserable because of him, too. 

It’s not his fault, though. Emotions are not his forte and if he responds to everything with _anger,_ well, he can’t help but petulantly think that it’s his prerogative as alpha. So he growls and glares and loses what little patience he barely had, and in turn his pack is more submissive and less likely to make him angry. It works, mostly, except for the part where he dislikes the way he sometimes catches flinches when he yells a little too loud or when he starts getting so rough even Danny avoids making eye contact with him on his those days. 

He really, _really_ can’t wait until the damned house is done. 

~*~*~*~*~*

When Stiles shows up near the house, November air brisk and wind so strong that his scent carries it’s way into his nostrils almost instantaneously, Derek loses his temper a bit. He waits a few moments, hoping his betas will take care of it quickly. In a sudden fit of irritation, though, he winds up following Stiles’ scent regardless. 

It’s mostly a case of misdirected anger, as it almost always is with Stiles. He’s stressed, he _knows_ , and it’s not Stiles’ fault that this entire project started except for the fact that, well, it kind of _is_. 

“I told you to stay away.”

Stiles sighs. “Yeah, yeah. Not allowed, I get it. I just-” he pauses, hands coming up to his face in frustration, “I just needed to talk to Scott about some school stuff.” 

****

And that’s when Derek’s anger at Stiles becomes justified. He can feel his glare harden, and his mood sink even lower into the ground. His betas shuffle in misery, but all he can think of is the fact that Stiles just practically challenged him in front of his own pack. 

“Take care of it on your own time. The pack is occupied and your presence isn’t required.” Derek turns away, shoulders bunched in tension. His words are harsh, he knows, but the teen won’t understand any other way.

****

No one speaks the rest of the day, all of them working silently in their own little corners of the house. Derek’s ill temper fluctuates, going from wanting to bite Stiles in the neck in a show of dominance to wanting to apologize for his words. He hates it, and even Alcide shoots him knowing looks while they work on the roof. 

“Mates,” Alcide says later that day, the sun setting in the background and the rest of the pack gone for the day, “Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em.” 

~*~*~*~*~*

Derek hesitates before opening the window that night, unsure of how angry Stiles must be at him. He knows that Stiles was pissed in the woods, could smell the agitation and fury coming off of him a mile away. 

But despite Stiles’ place as _Derek’s_ in the pack, he’s not yet his official mate. So the teen has to learn to take orders just as much as the others, and deliberately disobeying him in front of his betas is not how the pack structure operates. He had to lay down a firm hand because that’s what an alpha does- and his betas have to follow his orders because that’s what _they_ do as well. 

Nevertheless, he doesn’t like the idea of Stiles being mad at him- so once he finally makes his way inside the bedroom, he stands a little awkwardly at the foot of the bed. He moves slowly in case Stiles tries to chuck something at him (a legitimate concern after he threw a bottle of ketchup at Scott’s head during a heated argument a few weeks back). 

He pauses, though, when instead of frustrated statements or thrown objects he hears a quiet, “I didn’t think you’d come.” 

He frowns in confusion, completely thrown by the question. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“The woods-” Stiles tries to say, his voice still subdued. Derek is used to the tone now, though, used to the shift he makes between his normal boisterous self and the person Derek gets at night when no one else is around. It used to bother him, but he’s accustomed to it by now. 

Derek snorts, finding Stiles’ answer too amusing to stifle. “Pack business is separate from this,” he says, trying to convey his meaning. Stiles needs to understand that whatever Derek does or says in front of the pack has no bearing on their relationship. He doesn’t want reprimands and harsh words following him into the sanctity of their time together. Sometimes, Derek will need to exert his position as alpha in ways that won’t sit well with Stiles, but that’s not who Derek is when they’re away from the pack. Only here, with Stiles, can Derek allow affection and care to smooth out his rough edges. 

“You just need to _listen_ next time,” he adds, unable to hold back his intense look of disapproval. He can’t have the teen attempting another invasion of the Hale property, so he needs to be dissuaded of the notion entirely. 

Derek begins to undress himself, wanting to distract Stiles from the conversation entirely. He’d rather not talk about what happened because it’d probably end up with him apologizing for something he shouldn’t apologize _for_. 

Stiles nods, and Derek breathes a sigh of relief. The teen turns over, shucking his t-shirt as he goes but it’s Derek who yanks the boxers down, his enthusiasm leaking out. He presses curious fingers across Stiles’ back with purpose, mapping the area with soft pressure and fondness. 

He pulls back, though, and leans his body over the bed in search of their lube and condoms. When he sits back on the bed in triumph, Stiles has twisted around once more and is facing him, expression indescribable. Derek tilts his head in question, but doesn’t manage to say anything as Stiles surges up and plants an awkward kiss on the corner of his mouth. 

They stay like that for a few seconds, Derek shocked at the contact, before he eagerly responds. He licks his way into Stiles’ mouth, sucking on tongue and grazing teeth as he pushes the smaller teen back onto the bed. 

Without stopping the kiss he fits in between the teen’s legs, arms bracketing the other’s shoulders. Stiles wraps one leg around his waist eagerly, one hand caressing Derek’s face while the other tugs at his hair roughly. They grind slowly, Derek’s cock sliding against Stiles’ in delicious friction.

Derek doesn’t know what got into Stiles or what prompted the change, but Derek welcomes it immensely. He loves having Stiles like this, responsive and eager to be opened, piece by piece, and wishes he could have it more often. Derek can’t keep his growl of approval quiet, and Stiles lets out an answering moan. 

Derek pulls back slightly, hand searching for the lube once more. He pauses when he feels a hand on his abdomen and he turns to Stiles with a quirked eyebrow in question. Stiles ignores him and simply continues to caress Derek’s stomach, fingers tracing the lines of his muscles. 

Stiles has never really touched him like this before, so Derek doesn’t know how to respond. The teen is usually all rough hands and quickly-ended kisses, the sex more a race than a moment to savor. But now, Stiles’ hands are gripping and touching in such gentle a manner that Derek can’t help the soft surge of affection he feels for him. 

He falls carefully back on top of Stiles, kissing his grin into Stiles’ mouth. His callused hands cradle the teen’s small neck in one hand, thumb softly passing his pulse point. He’s happy right now, happy that Stiles is finally opening himself up to Derek. Patience and almost four months of this have given fruition, and he couldn’t be gladder at the outcome. 

Derek leans back once more and fumbles a bit with the lube, movements uncoordinated for a quick second because of his sudden nerves. He manages to coat his left palm with enough of the substance, though, so he pulls apart the teen’s already spread legs a bit more. He slips one long finger in, working it quickly and efficiently. 

Stiles moans loudly, once again hooking a leg around Derek. His heel drags insistently along Derek’s spine as he too grinds back into Derek’s finger. He huffs out a few breathes before starting, “Please.”

Derek grins, working another finger into the tight entrance. He crooks them at intervals, searching for the prostate with eagerness. Stiles’ hands come up now, one gripping tightly at Derek’s forearm while the other simply reaches for Derek but only gets air. 

He takes the implicit invitation and surges downward, scenting at Stiles’ neck in contentment. His fingers are now knuckle-deep within the teen below him, and Derek revels at how he can kiss and touch the other in a way he’s been deprived of for months. 

He doesn’t know what made Stiles so tender tonight,  but he will grasp this moment with steady hands and accept the gift that the teen has given him. He likes this Stiles, and he nips teasingly at Stiles’ neck to convey his feelings. 

Stiles continues pushing back against the fingers and Derek can feel his control start to waver a bit. It isn’t until Stiles begins to suck softly onto a spot on his neck that he lets out the kind of groan that he’d usually be embarrassed about. 

Stiles has never even tried to mark him like that before, and the possessive nature behind it makes Derek’s wolf _very_ satisfied. 

Derek nudges the third finger in and manages a few uneven thrusts of his hand before Stiles bites down hard and groans out, “ _Fuck,_ Derek, _come on._ ”

He nips back in reply, smile once again present on his face. He presses a soft kiss to the corner of Stiles’ mouth, much like the teen’s action at the beginning of the night. The kiss quickly turns dirty, though, as Stiles grips his hair and aggressively opens his mouth in want. Derek languidly kisses back, licking across teeth and tongue in equal measure, pleasure building up rapidly in his gut. 

Derek grunts a few seconds later, pushing back so he can put on the condom quickly. He aligns himself at the entrance, his hands gripping Stiles’ hips lightly but with intent. He pushes in slowly until he bottoms out, pleasure taking hold of him alarmingly fast. 

He then leans forward with Stiles’ legs wrapped around him, and brings himself chest to chest with Stiles. He has one arm supporting him, elbow sinking into the mattress with weight, and the other holds on to Stiles’ left thigh. 

He begins thrusting, eyes focused entirely on Stiles. They kiss, soft chaste ones that speak of intimacy and love, and that give Derek an adrenaline surge unknown of before. 

They continue this rhythm for a long time, building up the pressure at an excruciating pace that leaves Stiles panting and yelling for more. 

“ _Fuck!”_ he cries out as Derek hits his prostate with alarming accuracy. _Mine,_ Derek thinks as he mouths at Stiles’ jawline and neck. _Yours_ , he thinks as he comes before Stiles, eyes clenched shut and a moan startled out of him. 

It takes a few moments, but when he leans back, Stiles is still hard and leaking. Derek brings his hand down, gripping the cock in a firm grasp and pumps it. He’s lacking definite finesse but Stiles doesn’t seem to mind because he comes not a few seconds later. 

They’re a tangled mess of limbs, and for the first time he doesn’t immediately get up and leave, because Stiles grabs him by the scruff of his neck and brings him down for a gentle kiss. 

Stiles’ hands travel and explore, tangling in his hair one moment and grabbing at his hip the next.  Derek maps out his own journey, dropping sweet kisses all along Stiles’ chest and stomach, nipping and sucking in turns so as to leave little marks everywhere. It’s calm and serene and totally different from anything they’d ever done. 

It’s the kind of lovemaking that Derek has craved for, the uninhibited passion and undiluted desire in Stiles’ eyes. The hands and kisses and innocent touches. The things that speak more of love and affection than of sex and lust. 

He breathes in the heady scent of his lover, dragging his beard across pale skin just to see the way it turns red, eyes half-lidded with contentment. 

~*~*~*~*~*

Stiles starts avoiding them, _all_ of them, after that night. 

At first, he thinks it’s something he did to upset the teen. The window to his now-always-empty bedroom is constantly locked and the teen starts spending a lot of nights in the police department with his father. Derek racks his brain for reasons, logical and otherwise, of what could have pushed Stiles to ignore him like this. 

Then, Derek finds out that Stiles is also avoiding the pack. 

And he figures, ok, whatever’s going on, it’s obvious that it’s not specific to Derek. Stiles has to be going through a rough patch of some sort, studying extra hard in order to get closer to his father. Or maybe he’s overwhelmed, as the only normal human, with all of the supernatural things- which wasn’t unheard of back when Derek was young and the Hale family was still alive. 

Derek doesn’t know what it is, but he’s determined to give Stiles the space he so clearly wants. He told himself that he’d do this the correct way from the very beginning, and he’s not going to stop doing so now. Giving Stiles what he needs, even if it’s something Derek doesn’t agree with, is important and non-negotiable. 

This doesn’t stop him from growing restless and infuriated with the world. 

He kills three rabbits and two raccoons in this state at one point, ripping their little bodies to shreds with his claws, his wolf wanting to come out and cause _pain_ (he buries them properly afterward, though, because while hunting is seen as good sport in the werwolf community, purposely causing pain to the prey is not what he was taught by his parents).

He consoles himself with the only thought that holds any importance to him. 

Stiles will come around. 

Derek knows he will. 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, previews and snippets of the following chapter will be up at my [tumblr](http://thebatwiggler.tumblr.com/), in case anyone is wondering <3


	3. With My Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gods, its been a year. 
> 
> Um. Hiiii? :)
> 
> First off, I've been hugely lucky in having two amazing authors as my betas this time around. The more than amazing [itsxandy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/itsxandy/pseuds/itsxandy), and the fabulous [GoddessofBirth](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessofBirth). Thanks so much for all the support and help <333 Love and kisses, loves. 
> 
> So this is back to Stiles' POV, picks up right after Chapter 1. Hope you enjoy! :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE NOTE. This fic is now FIVE chapters long, so it is NOT COMPLETE *runs and hides from everyone*.

~*~*~*~*~*

It happens during one of their now regular hang-out sessions at the library.

Stiles starts the questions like he does every day, asking random things or opinions on interests they both share. He doesn’t expect anything special to happen today, but it does.

“What’s your favorite comic book couple?” Stiles asks around a mouth full of skittles. He’s busy picking out the red ones to eat at the end so he only vaguely registers Jaime tensing up.

“Teddy and... Billy,” he finally says, only pausing once despite his obvious awkwardness in answering. He stops again, chewing his lip before quickly adding, “They’re from Young Avengers, which is basically a ‘next gen’ sort of story. There are a lot of other good couples in there. And in Marvel. But, you know, they’re an out and open couple. Thought it was very nice and progressive. You know, Marvel was pretty good about that sort of thing, but for almost the entire series, the writers wouldn’t let them kiss...”

Stiles was pretty sure that Jaime would’ve continued to defensively ramble on about the merits of Billy and Teddy’s relationship. It was an endless cycle of Jaime being embarrassed by his own enthusiasm and then enthusiastically trying to explain and justify said enthusiasm, and he couldn’t seem to _stop_.

They’re sitting right next to each other at the help desk, so Stiles is close enough to lean gently on Jaime’s shoulder. “My favorite is Rogue and Gambit. You know, the classics,” he interjects, taking pity on Jaime before he could start to go into the history of LGBT characters in Marvel. He’d been starting to get a frantic look in his eyes. “But I gotta say, you got good taste dude.”

Jaime’s fingers drift closer to Stiles on the table, about an inch of space between them. “Yeah?” he asks, voice a little breathless.

Stiles smiles softly. “Yeah.” His hand crosses the remaining distance and holds on tightly.

~*~*~*~*~*

Stiles and his dad always spend Christmas and New Year’s with his aunt in Tahoe, so they pack up their things and head off in Stiles’ jeep. He doesn’t get to say goodbye to Jaime- hasn’t actually _seen_ Jaime since they held hands in the library a few days ago- but they’ve been texting. And Stiles sends him a quick one that day, a short _sucks that I’m spending xmas with my crazy extended fam_ , and Jaime replies quickly with _I’ll miss you._

It shouldn’t throw Stiles off so much, but Jaime’s constant openness and sincerity tends to mess with him in the oddest of ways.

 _Me too_ , he types out, and finds that he’s being honest. _Btw, any and all requests to rescue me will be automatically accepted._

 _Drama_ _queen_ , he gets back. _Besides, I’ll be too busy soaking up the sun to stage any rescue missions._

Stiles chuckles, still jealous that Jaime is spending the holiday in Ecuador with his father’s family. Just as he’s about to reply, a snippy _well, be careful and don’t ruin that nice complexion of yours, jerk,_ he receives another message.

_Dude, is everything ok?_

It’s his fifth text that day, just from Scott. He’s gotten quite a few others from Allison and Danny, too, but it’s Scott that’s been the most insistent, checking in on Stiles every day with more and more urgency.

Stiles stares at his phone for a moment, but he ultimately closes the small window as he always does. He replies to Jaime, though, and turns in his seat to get comfortable.

“Everything alright there, son?” his dad asks, always so observant.

“Yeah,” he answers, grinning over at his father. “Just thinking about who Aunt Tilly is going to set you up with this year.” He’s lying and being cheeky to hide it, but his father is kind enough to play game with his loud answering groan.

~*~*~*~*~*

_Favorite Star Trek captain._

Stiles hums as he considers the text, thumb tapping against his phone case as he pointedly ignores the screeching of his younger cousins fighting over the Xbox. Five days in and he’s more than given up on the idea that he’ll ever get a turn at playing video games.

_Kirk. He has OG status, you know, gotta respect that._

“So, Genim,” he hears from the kitchen, his Aunt Steph’s shrill voice easily overpowering the kids’ screaming.  “What is this I hear about a librarian?”

“ _Dad_.” Stiles glances down quickly at the vibration he feels, the blue bubble informing him of Jaime’s reply ( _Stop watching Gangland, you sound ridiculous_ ). “I literally told you about that two hours ago! How can you already be gossiping about this?”

“I had to brag about it!”  His dad appears in the archway of the living room wearing a “Kiss the Cook!” apron. “My little boy is finally getting over Lydia Martin and moving on to brighter pastures.”

“I’m not a _cow_.” Stiles sticks his tongue out at his dad. “I do not hang around pastures of any kind, thank you very much. And Jaime’s not a librarian!” he adds, raising his voice so his aunt can hear him. “He’s an assistant," he mutters.

Stiles types out a quick _what about you, fave cap_ before he gets further distracted.

“Oh, his name’s _Jaime_.” Aunt Steph looks incredibly smug when she comes into the room, patting him condescendingly on the cheek on her way to corral her kids. “I’m so happy for you, sweetheart. You needed some goodness in your life, from what your dad tells me.”

Stiles looks at his dad a bit helplessly at that, wide eyes and phone temporarily forgotten. His dad smiles at him, small but content, and shrugs.

Stiles ducks his head, throat tight. But despite his sudden urge to cry, Stiles realizes in that moment that he’s feeling a sense of happiness for the first time in months. He’s talking with his father again, about _real things_ , and he hasn’t had to lie about anything for weeks now and since he’s not part of the pack anymore, the weight of the supernatural world doesn’t hang so ominously above him.

His phone buzzes and Stiles’ heart feels just a bit lighter.

_Do I lose points with you if I say Picard?_

Stiles looks at his dad, his usually disappointed and concerned face molded into a small smile, an expression Stiles hasn’t seen since Scott got bit. He grins back and types, his fingers moving quickly, and he hits send before he regrets it.

_You could hate wesley crusher and I’d still like you, dork._

~*~*~*~*~*

It’s Christmas and Stiles has gotten new games (which he can’t play until he gets home to his own Xbox), clothes, new speakers for his computer, and about $200 in cash.

It’s a good day, all things considered, and he should probably be inside the living room with his relatives partying it up (really, it’s 8AM and Uncle Tom is already on his second carton of eggnog) but instead, like he’s been doing every day since he’s been in Tahoe, he’s out on the back porch, phone clutched to his ear and covered in about five billion blankets.

“You are _such_ an asshole,” he says, white puffs of air releasing at every word.

Jaime laughs. “Not my fault I’m in Ecuador. Which, you know, is right on the equator. S’nice that I can chill outside in shorts on Christmas Day.”

“You cheeky mofo.” But Stiles is grinning as he says it. Admittedly, his face has been frozen this way since he’d called Jaime and stepped outside, so. “When’re you heading back home?”

“We leave the third.” Jaime pauses, and Stiles hears another voice, a woman’s, speaking in Spanish. “Uh,” Jaime starts. “My mom says hi.”

Stiles can’t help himself at hearing Jaime’s awkward tone. He laughs, loud. “Tell her I said hi, too. My dad’s dying to meet you, by the way.”

The line goes silent, not a sound from Jaime or his mom. For a terrifying second, Stiles wonders if he’s miscalculated, missed something, crossed a line he shouldn’t have even gone near.  

But right as as he’s about to backpedal, when he’s about to jokingly add ‘Oh, but you know _dads_ , he’s just being nosy’, Jaime speaks up with unmistakable joy in his voice.

“Yeah,” he says, and Stiles takes a deep breath. “I’d really like that.”

Stiles hadn’t thought it possible to be thankful for the ridiculous coldness of the Tahoe air, but he is. That way, when he comes back inside with flushed cheeks and red ears, he can blame the bitter cold and freezing temperatures.

Judging from his father’s knowing looks, though, and the way his Aunt Steph keeps tsking at his phone, he’s not really fooling anyone.

~*~*~*~*~*

He should’ve known that his good mood couldn’t last him this long.

Stiles had prepared himself for Scott’s texts, especially given their frequency over the last week (he’s averaging out at ten a day, the trooper). Stiles had steeled himself for his best friend’s pleas to talk, and even his apologies (of which there were many, even though they were a bit confusing to Stiles at times. It almost seemed as if Scott had no idea why Stiles was mad, but whatever, Stiles officially decided not to care about that anymore weeks ago).

He’d even prepped himself in case Lydia sent him a message (which she did. A long one, with a note to check his email. At which point, he’d opened the email to find an attachment detailing the many ways a person could be disemboweled. Stiles had gotten the feeling that she was a bit irritated with him).

Either way, he was beyond surprised when Jackson, of all people, sent him a very short _merry xmas. wher the fuk r u_.

To say he was surprised was an understatement.

But the thing is, it’s Christmas Day (well, afternoon now) and he’s managed to ignore everyone, from Scott to Danny to Lydia, and he’s feeling buzzed on eggnogg (that he sneaked passed his dad) and a bit punchdrunk from the exceedingly daring texts he and Jaime were sending one another.

And then he gets it.

_Merry Christmas. Have a good time with your family, and I’ll see you when you get back. -Derek_

It was like having a bucket of ice thrown on him.

He feels the blood leaving his face so fast he’s a bit dizzy, his fingers trembling as he stares wide-eyed at his phone.

Stiles wants to cry, to yell, to throw up, to punch something so hard he breaks his hand. Stiles wants to destroy something, the way Derek so utterly broke _him_ , the same way the werewolf is managing to ruin his day hundreds of miles away. Stiles wants to curl up and never come out in that moment, because for all his flirting and teasing with Jaime, he’ll always have this hanging over him, this utter inability to let go of Derek Hale, let go of the anger and betrayal and hatred and love.  

Because that’s the worst of it for him, the absolute worst, that when Stiles saw that message, he’d felt hope. Tiny and more poisonous than a snake, Stiles had felt the inklings of _maybe_ , of _what if_ ; all the things Stiles has promised himself he’s grown out of, away from, past.

 

Stiles had felt the love for a man he’s tried hard to forget come rearing up as if it’d never been gone (only on vacation, his mind whispers, never gone, never _really_ gone).

Stiles wants to _scream_.

In the end, he drops to his knees in the middle of the hallway, and has the quietest panic attack he’s ever had in his life.

And as he composes himself, dragging himself to the bathroom to clean himself up, he gazes at his red-rimmed eyes and the blood gathering on his lip from biting it too hard and the tear stains upon his cheeks. He looks _wrecked_ , over one small message, and Stiles resists the urge to punch the mirror.

He does send one text to everyone, though, for no reason other than the desire to feel strong, however hollow the sentiment is.

_Happy Holidays & Happy New Year._

~*~*~*~*~*

Stiles hijacks his aunt’s old cell phone the very next day, and it’s easy to do given the new iPhone Aunt Tilly got from her boyfriend (nobody likes the guy, but he has a good job and treats his aunt like a princess so his dad hasn’t brought out the gun on him. Yet.).

Convincing his dad to let him change his number is harder, but only because Stiles avoids answering direct questions the entire time, ultimately pleading, “Please, Dad, I just need something… new, ok?”

His dad caves in the end and Stiles gives him the biggest hug ever, but it kind of sucks because his aunt’s old phone is _ancient_ , and he at least had an older version of the iPhone. But until they finalize the change with the company, his old phone is tucked away in a drawer, and he texts Jaime without a care on the new one.

It’s a small gesture, he knows, but he thinks its progress of a sort.

~*~*~*~*~*

Jaime and Stiles talk and flirt and tease, enough that he’s slightly distracted and mostly content when the second of January rolls around and he’s on his way back to Beacon Hills. Jaime’s flight won’t be in until later the next day, so Stiles takes this time messing around on his computer and playing video games and rigging his window so it’s embedded with mountain ash.

It’s a productive day.

School starts that Thursday, unfortunately, so the next couple of days Stiles is bogged down with homework from his AP classes (why, oh _why_ , did he ever let Lydia convince him to take AP Gov?) and a few dozen different scholarships he needs to fill out for college. He barely has time for anything else, but despite the lack of sleep and slight over-dosing of adderall, he makes time to reply to Jaime’s texts whenever he can.

So on the night before school starts, when his father asks him to drop by Starbucks and pick him up a coffee, Stiles readily and happily agrees (after all, some caffeine for himself wouldn’t go amiss).

It isn’t until he’s in the Starbucks downtown, crouching under a shelf of coffee beans and Starbucks-labeled coffee mugs, that he realizes he actually forgot for a while that there were _werewolves_ in Beacon Hills that he was _avoiding_.

He doesn’t get up, not even when Jackson is clear across the street, and Stiles thanks whatever deity is listening for the fact that he parked behind the building instead of out in front where Jackson surely would’ve seen it.

“Uh,” he hears behind him, and Stiles does not squeak. “Are you in line, or…?”

Stiles coughs awkwardly and straightens up, eyeing the large boy in front him with feigned confidence. “Yeah, uh, I am! Just practicing my reaction time in case of a fire. Have to stop, drop and roll anywhere at anytime, you know!” Stiles grins, moving up to the front of the line where he quickly orders an iced mocha and black coffee.

Stiles almost forgets about the other boy until he’s walking down the street, and he hears, “It looked to me like you were hiding.”

Stiles shrugs, not really bothered at being caught. “Yeah, that seems more likely than a sudden need to be prepared for a fire.” Stiles eyes him a bit, noting that he looks familiar. “I’m Stiles.”

“Boyd. We go to the same school.” Stiles nods quickly, now realizing where he knew the other boy. “We share three classes.”

Stiles’ nodding stops, and he barely has time to make a sheepish expression before Boyd waves him off. “It’s cool. Not a lot of people really notice me, anyway.”

Stiles’ lips quirk at that, a strong feeling of empathy resting in his gut. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

Boyd turns to him and stops, large hands holding a pink concoction of some type as he stares solemnly at Stiles. “Funny you say that. Because everyone at school notices _you_.”

It’s an accusation, or it feels a bit like an accusation, despite the lack of anger and bite in the words. Stiles narrows his eyes, takes a step back and feels around for his keys in his pocket. “I’m a benchwarmer on the lacrosse team, man, so I really don’t know what you mean.”

Boyd shrugs and slurps at his drink a bit before continuing. “And yet you’re best friends with the captains of the lacrosse team, as well as the valedictorian.” Boyd uncaps his drink, licking at the whipcream. “Or you were, anyway.”

Stiles sighs and continues walking, not bothering to turn around when he hears Boyd do the same. He didn’t think there’d actually be rumors around school about his absence from the group, but it figures there would be. Beacon Hills is tragically small, after all.

“I didn’t believe Erica when she said you weren’t friends with them anymore-”

“Who?” Stiles asks.

“-but after seeing you hiding from Jackson like that, I guess she was right.”

This time, it’s Stiles who stops, but only because they’ve reached his jeep and he’s itching to get away from this strange as hell conversation. He quickly loads his drinks in the car, glancing at Boyd right before he gets in. “Listen-”

“We hang out in the old art room, by the portables no one uses anymore,” Boyd says, leaning heavily against Stiles’ jeep.

Despite himself, the sudden change in topic intrigues Stiles. “Who’s ‘ _we_ ’?”

“Isaac, Erica, and me,” Boyd replies, giving Stiles a considering look. “I’ve seen you sit by yourself in the library during lunch. You should come by.” Boyd shrugs, dropping eye contact, and for the first time since the conversation started, Stiles sees vulnerability in the other boy’s face. “Sucks being by yourself all the time, anyway, so might as well eat with other people, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Stiles mutters, watching Boyd walk away with his pink frapp. He smiles as he gets into the jeep, wondering over how someone could go out of their way to befriend _him_ of all people.

He tells his dad about what happened later that night, all flailing arms and dramatic voices. It's been a long time since Stiles has looked forward to school and the first time that he's ever had friends outside Scott and the pack. If Stiles seemed a bit overexcited by the fact, the older man is kind enough not to comment on it.

His dad is also nice enough not to ask why Boyd assumed Stiles wasn’t friends with Scott and the group. Although, Stiles has the sneaking suspicion that his dad has known about his friendlessness for quite a while now and chose to stay quiet, and that just further proves how awesome the man really is.

~*~*~*~*~*

Despite the seemingly easy manner in which Stiles talks to Jaime, the fact of the matter is that Stiles has no real clue what he’s doing. He’s fumbling through this as much as Jaime is, and even though there’s a definite hint of _something_ there, Stiles is-

Stiles is still dealing with losing almost every person he’s valued in his life aside from his dad. Stiles is learning how to avoid his best friend of more than ten years, the person he always considered a _brother_. Stiles is still hopelessly heartbroken and no amount of flirtatious messages will magically get him over it.

But he’s trying, regardless.

So the next morning, Stiles texts Jaime as he gets in his jeep, munching on a bagel and he types out, _coming over after class, see you at the library?_

 _can’t_ _wait_ , Jaime sends back, and if he weren’t driving, Stiles would’ve sent back a million smiley faces.

 _me_ _neither_ , he replies instead, grinning as he grabs his backpack and heads into school.

~*~*~*~*~*

Getting shoved into a locker by Jackson Whittemore is just as painful as it was two years ago.

“ _Motherfu_ -” Stiles bites off his own curse, clutching his shoulder with one hand as he quickly backs away from Jackson. The entire group, sans alpha, is there, apparently waiting for him as soon as he got to school. “The hell is your problem, man?”

So brief is the flash of guilt on Jackson’s face that Stiles is sure he imagined it. “Didn’t push you that hard, you wuss,” he mutters.

“How many times have I told you to be gentle with the human?” Lydia hisses, perfect red-painted lips morphed into a smile. “Brute.”

“Can’t say Stiles didn’t deserve it,” Scott scoffs, and Stiles can’t stop himself from the hurt look he sends his way. Allison digs her elbow into Scott’s side, but Stiles is too irritated to care what proceeds. He yanks open his locker, forcibly pushing a shocked Jackson out of the way, and throws his unnecessary textbooks inside.

He’s already a few feet down the hall when he gets tackle-hugged by Scott, unnaturally strong arms around his neck and a mess of curls nuzzling into his neck. “Don’t get mad, I’m just butthurt that you haven’t been around,” Scott admits.

It’s awkward, given the very public setting and Scott’s strong grip, but Stiles is warmed despite his better judgement. He tries for a bit of diplomacy, leaning into Scott as he informs him, “You know I spend Christmas and New Years with my dad’s family.”

Stilles can feel the frown against his neck, and furthermore, he sees Lydia’s still-angry frown. Stiles lets his own neutral expression drop a bit, bothered that they were angry with _him_ , of all things.

“Yeah, but even before that,” Scott insists, finally loosening his hold enough so Stiles can see his face. And what an unhappy face it is, Stiles notes. “You weren’t even replying to our texts!”

Stiles sighs and pats Scott on the arm, knowing how physically needy werewolves can be sometimes. “I’ve been busy,” he says, and it’s not a lie. If he purposefully has to think of the last couple of days of non-stop homework, then… Well, no one will know but him.

“Too busy for my swim meet?” Stiles looks at Jackson, more than a bit shocked at his dejected tone. Given the soft blush tainting the blonde’s cheeks, even he knows how whiny he sounded.

“It wasn’t the same without you, Stiles.” Allison smiles at him, deceptively small and gentle hands touching his shoulder. “Where were you yesterday?”

“Yes, Stiles, where were you? Because you know how much it means to Derek for everyone to attend each other’s events. Support within the pack is vital, and I’m sure whatever you were doing wasn’t important enough to _miss_ Jackson’s meet,” Lydia states, one eyebrow arched and eyes clearly itching for a challenge.

Stiles sighs, all the fight leaving him at the first mention of Derek and his so-called place in the pack. “I completely forgot, guys. I just came into town a few days ago, and I had a ton of homework to do. Sorry?” he offers. Stiles isn’t lying, either; he hadn’t remembered there was a meet, but even if he had, there’d been no way in hell he’d gone.

They didn’t need to know that, though. It’s not even 8:30 AM and Stiles has had enough of today, already.

“Listen, guys, the bell’s about to ring.” Stiles gestures hopelessly to his watch, wanting to get away as quickly as possible. He gets a few more looks, some still bothered and some concerned, and Stiles just wants to close his eyes and pretend the day is already over.

Ever the unpredictable one, though, Danny then steps up and gives Stiles a quick hug. “It’s good to see you, Stiles. We all missed you over break.”

Stiles blinks, caught off guard and unprepared for the action. In a matter of minutes, everyone goes in for a hug of their own, some longer (Allison) and some quicker (Jackson). Stiles just stands there, unsure of what to do.

He’s considering just running, when Scott starts, “You’re coming for the lacrosse showcase, right?” He’s all wide eyes and hopeful expression as he stares expectantly at Stiles. “I need my best friend there, man. Can’t do it without ya.”

Stiles hears a murmur of agreement behind them, as well as a few grumbles he just knows are from Jackson. But Stiles just smiles, brief and without too much enthusiasm, because this is his best friend asking him to go watch him play lacrosse. This is the kid who held Stiles’ hand at his mom’s funeral, this is the kid who snuck into Stiles’ room for a week straight when his dad left, this is the kid who was there when his dad almost got shot all those years ago and Stiles thought the world was ending.

Scott is Stiles’ best friend, and he’s never managed to learn how to say to him, so he just nods at Scott and promises to be there this weekend, no ifs about it.

~*~*~*~*~*

Stiles considers sitting with the pack at lunch for all of five minutes.

Then he sighs and congratulates himself on picking World Religions for his third period this semester. Lydia and Allison are in AP Psychology (the only time offered), Scott is in Calculus with Danny and Jackson (the only way they can all be in the same class together with their schedules), and there’s no one to guilt-trip him as he makes his way to the portables for lunch.

He’s a little confused once he gets there, tugging on his backpack strap nervously as he eyes the long row of portable classrooms. Boyd never told him which room it was, so he simply stands there awkwardly, contemplating the library as a better choice.

“I didn’t think you’d come.” Boyd pats his shoulder, spooking him so much he jerks forward, Boyd’s strong grip the only thing between Stiles and the pavement. “We’re in 201, over here,” Boyd says, not even pausing as he pushes Stiles down the row of portables.

Stiles is still gathering his wits when he’s shoved through the door, the musky smell of stale air greeting him first. “This is Isaac and Erica. Guys, Stiles,” Boyd states, nudging Stiles to the side so he can squeeze through.

Stiles hadn’t been able to put a faces to the names before, but he does know them. Erica’s the girl who has the seizures, the one who was videotaped two years ago in the middle of class. She’s sweet, he knows; she always smiles at him in the hallways, and he’s talked to her once or twice before, the girl always soft-spoken and so nice.

She waves so hesitantly that he resists the urge to hug her. Instead, Stiles grins and waves back enthusiastically, feeling better about his decision to come here.

Isaac is a tall boy, gangly almost, and withdrawn. Stiles automatically recognizes him as the substitute on the lacrosse team, the only other player aside from him and Greenberg who can lay claim to an ass-groove on the bench. Unlike Stiles and Greenberg, though, Isaac never complained about being benched all day- in fact, he quit lacrosse junior year when his dad died from that heart attack, if Stiles remembers right.

He pushes these thoughts to the side, though, and throws a smile Isaac’s way. The other teen nods jerkily, and Stiles makes his way into the small classroom, commandeering three desks immediately (one for his food, his ass, and his feet).

“Thanks for inviting me, guys.” Stiles opens his brown lunch bag, grabbing his Dr. Pepper with extra vigor. “It’s a nice change from the library,” he adds, taking a huge bite out of the banana he packed.

“No problem.” Erica smiles, tugging on her huge sweatshirt as she pulls out a few tupperware plates from her backpack. “The more, the merrier, right?”

She hands a large tupperware filled with food to Isaac without a word, and Stiles thinks of how he used to have to pack food for his own careless friends all the time before, because no one ever brought anything despite knowing how hungry they’d be after training (Danny used to tell him it was because he spoiled them- why bother packing a lunch if Stiles could cook? Stiles usually punched Danny lightly for that, but he always felt nice after that, _needed_ ).

“So what happened?” Stiles breaks out of his own thoughts, looking up at Isaac in confusion. Boyd throws a wrapper at Isaac, but the curly-haired teen just ignores him and asks again. “What happened with you and your friends?”

“ _Isaac_ ,” Erica hisses, her unusual vehemence startling Stiles a bit. He didn’t know she could be so… feisty.

“It’s ok,” Stiles tells her, already liking her more and more. He shrugs nonchalantly at Erica before turning back to Isaac, the boy’s hunched form in the corner putting out epic waves of defensiveness. He thinks about how to explain the way Scott and the others slowly froze him out, the way they treated him as less than pack. He wants to put into words the anger he felt at first, at the fact that he’d have given his _life_ for any one of his friends, but they couldn’t do him the courtesy of simply being honest with him. Doesn’t know how to mention the way Derek used him, or the way Stiles let him. It’s too embarrassing to tell them how he’d pressed fingers over the marks Derek left after their last night together, willing the bruises to stay with him, to keep him comfort in his loneliness. His face would burn in _shame_ if he told them about how he had cried when he realized he’d lost Scott, the brother he’d thought he’d always have, the one person he’d always thought would have his back. The one relationship in his life he considered as stable as the one with his dad, and jesus, just the _thought_ of Melissa McCall can still bring him to the brink of panic attack.

Finally, he settles on the simple truth. “I wasn’t needed anymore,” he says, willing his voice to be even. He shrugs, as if he didn’t care, as if it didn’t still sting like hell. Because, he figures, it’s true. Lydia is as smart (if not smarter) as him, Allison kicks way more ass than he could ever dream of, Danny is well on his way to being turned, and Stiles never had any intention of going furry once a month. So he was kicked out, as easy as that (and if it shames him even more that he wasn’t even worthy enough to be a real lover, well, they definitely didn’t need to know that part).

As Stiles is trying to smile confidently, he’s attacked. A Fruit Roll-Up smacks him soundly in the face, and he sputters for a bit in the wake of laughter.

“You’re so skinny,” Boyd says, taking a huge bite of his sandwich before pointing at Isaac. “Almost as bad as him.”

“Hey! Asshole,” Isaac laughs, throwing a pencil Boyd’s way, and before long, they’re all in a full-out war, everyone against everyone, desks overturned and forts proclaimed. Stiles laughs and laughs, not missing the way Isaac and Boyd are careful when roughhousing with Erica, or the way everyone is very careful not to startle Isaac.They all end up late to class, but it’s with grins on their faces, and Stiles can’t help but wonder at how _nice_ this all is.

~*~*~*~*~*

“How can detention be _fun_?” Jaime asks, nose scrunched up in utter confusion.

Stiles shrugs. They’re in the back of the library, hidden behind stacks of books with their feet on the table in front of them, sitting side by side on small wooden chairs. Stiles hasn’t stopped smiling since he showed up- he can still feel the way Jaime had squeezed him tight, his brown hair tickling Stiles’ cheeks as he burrowed his head Stiles’ neck, his expression so open and honest as he welcomed Stiles.

Stiles has never been looked at like that before, like he’s hung the moon or some crazy thing like that, and he can’t. Stop. _Smiling_.

“I don’t know,” Stiles admits, more preoccupied with the way his right foot is touching Jaime’s converse-clad left foot. “Isaac was drawing this thing, ok, with Harris and a stripper pole and-” at Jaime’s look, Stiles laughs and waves his hand a bit. “Yeah, dude, I know. And Erica and Boyd kept sending each other the weirdest pick up lines, and since I was sitting in the middle, I got to read them all.” Stiles stops for a moment. “I think they were flirting. It was odd.”

“What were they even saying?” Jaime asks, crumpling up his third bag of gushers.

“If you were a laser, you’d be set on ‘stunning’.” Stiles snorts, unable to keep a serious face. “My favorite was ‘my lips are skittles, wanna taste the rainbow?’”

Jaime nudges him after they both stop laughing, a soft dig of elbow that has Stiles leaning in instead of away. “You turn my blackest night into the brightest day,” he says.

“Nerd,” Stiles scoffs. “Did you come up with that all by yourself?”

A shove and Stiles is on the floor, ass smarting. He’s still laughing, though, as he drags Jaime down next to him.

It’s a tangle of limbs, the space small and Jaime’s long limbs going everywhere at once. After being elbowed twice in the gut, Stiles finally slumps down on the carpet. Jaime hesitates, Stiles can see he does, before he slowly lays down next to Stiles.

Seeing how awkward Jaime is- the way he doesn’t seem to know where to put his arms or legs or body, and the way he eyes the distance between them like a monster to conquer- puts Stiles so at ease, so he sighs and closes his eyes.

It’s nice to know he’s not alone in this, that someone else feels as unsure and nervous as him. There’s something between them now, something that started that moment they held hands in the library, and it gives Stiles a giddy feeling while also making his stomach plummet. It seems too easy, the banter and laughter and teasing, but Stiles isn’t about to ruin it all because of his stupid issues.

“Hey,” he mumbles, tucking one arm under his head. “There’s a thing I have to go to on Saturday. Want to come with me?”

“Sure,” Jaime says, and Stiles has to smile at realizing that sometimes things are as easy as that.

~*~*~*~*~*

Stiles ends up getting sneak-attacked by the pack after third period the next day, Scott popping up out of thin air to give him a soft noogie. “Dude! We’re gonna go get some In-N-Out, you in?”

Before Stiles can even voice his surprise, Jackson comes up from behind and pushes him bodily down hall to the parking lot. “Of course Stilinski is in,” he says. “He loves those disgusting animal fries.”

That snaps Stiles out of it, and he’s quick to gripe back. “Don’t hate, jerk face. You’re just jealous I could finish a 4x4 before you.”

That starts up another round of teasing, and Stiles lets himself have it, if only for a moment. He sits on Allison’s lap in the backseat of Lydia’s BMW, flicking pens and pencils at Jackson’s head and fist-bumping Scott, who was sitting on Danny’s lap (an arrangement that puzzled Stiles, but everyone was insistent so he let it go).

It’s _fun_. He hates to admit it, but it’s a lot of fun. He braids Allison’s hair and only ends up getting sauce in it, and when he and Lydia get into an argument over the Latin pronunciation of “oblivion”, it ends with laughter and thrown french fries. Even Jackson is unnaturally pleasant as he starts up an arm wrestling match with Scott and graciously loses.

He texts Boyd and Jaime throughout the lunch, though, which seems to put the others on edge a bit. Scott keeps trying to lean over his shoulder to read the texts, and he knows he saw Danny eyeing his new phone with a glint in his eye.

Stiles makes sure to keep it out of everyone’s reach, and thanks the heavens when no one asks after his new number.

~*~*~*~*~*

They’re running late.

“I swear to god, Stiles, stop wearing a hole in the ground or I’ll _make_ you.”

Stiles pauses to make a face at his dad, then promptly ignores him and continues pacing. His dad only sighs, muting the TV and turning in his seat to give Stiles the ‘explain-why-you’re-so-weird’ eyebrows.

Stiles groans and throws his hands up in the air, sputtering a bit before finally saying, “We’re late!”

“So?” the sheriff asks, eyebrows perching precariously high on his forehead. “You’re late all the time.”

“Yeah, but Scott asked me to go and if I’m not there-”

“From my understanding, you’ve been avoiding Scott for months now,” his dad interrupts, mouth quirked in an unhappy line. “I don’t know why you’re suddenly worried about disappointing him _now_.”

Stiles hears the unasked questions of ‘why were you avoiding him?’ and ‘what suddenly changed?’ More importantly, though, he gets loud and clear the worry his dad is showing for him, so he hugs him, quick and rough, to express his gratitude.

His dad mutters a bit about Stiles escaping questioning, but he grips him back just as tight and Stiles smiles into his shoulder before pulling away.

His phone chirps, then, and after skimming the message, he grabs his coat and says goodbye, hopping into Jaime’s car all within minutes.

“We’re late!” Stiles scolds him, but he only says it after giving him a soft shoulder bump. “Turn left up here, it’s a shortcut.”

“Hello to you, too,” Jaime pouts, hiking his glasses up with one hand as he puts his old Honda into gear. “Traffic on Hi-5 was shitty,” he goes on, and Stiles stifles a small smile at the fact that Jaime feels he owes Stiles an explanation for his lateness. Derek held on to everything so tightly, Stiles never expected _words_ , let alone an explanation. “There was an accident or something, cop cars blocking everything on the way here.”

Stiles hums. “Beacon Hills or..?”

“Nah,” Jaime replies, fingers tapping out an unknown beat on his wheel. “Right before you enter Beacon Hills, so inside my county.”

Stiles nods absently, relieved at his dad not getting called in. The man deserved a day off, especially on a Saturday.

“So what is this thing anyway?” Jaime asks after a moment of silence, and Stiles gamely ignores the obvious signs of the other’s nervousness.

“It’s a showcase,” Stiles starts, leaning back and checking the time once more. They’re only fifteen minutes late, so hopefully he won’t miss too much. “It’s basically a school’s excuse to show off their best players to scouts. Only the best athletes get asked to participate and it’s a pretty big deal, especially if you get offered a scholarship or something.”

“And you know some of the players?”

“Yeah.” Stiles swallows, suddenly tense. “The two co-captains and the goalie.”

Jaime whistles. “Damn, they must be good.” He laughs, then, a bit self-deprecatingly. “I was so bad at sports in school that my PE teachers would just let me take a C in the class as long as I aced the written part.”

“Written part?”  

“Yeah, like, the rules of certain sports and stuff?” Jaime scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. “So I can basically understand the mechanics of any sport, but ask me to throw a ball and a twelve year-old would beat me by twice the distance.”

Stiles laughs, but it’s not meanly and Jaime seems to know it. “Don’t worry, I have a custom-made ass groove on the lacrosse bench just for me. That took four years of dedicated sitting to accomplish, I’ll have you know.”

~*~*~*~*~*

Stiles groans when he catches sight of the bleachers.

“That is… a lot of people,” Jaime states, rather unhelpfully.

“I told you it was a big deal,” Stiles mutters, grabbing Jaime by the arm and leading him to the far left side, spotting Argent in the corner. “Chris!” Stiles says enthusiastically, pointedly ignoring the unimpressed look sent his way. “Mind if we squeeze in next to you?” he asks hopefully.

After a bit of prodding and moving and definite grumbling from Argent, they sit down, Jaime’s ass half-hanging off the bleacher but at least sitting. “Allison’s on the top bench,” Stiles hears, and he can practically sense the irritation Argent gets at his presence.

“Mrs. Argent not here?” Stiles asks innocently. Chris only clicks his jaw shut, and Stiles gets a small surge of glee at bothering the man. Everyone in the pack knows the tension still present between Chris and Victoria and Allison, all over their daughter’s continued relationship with Scott. Which probably explains _why_ Allison is sitting away from her father, and with-

Yup, a quick look and Stiles spots Mrs. McCall, Allison, and Lydia, all huddled up on the top bench. They catch sight of him and Allison waves, but he notices the contemplative looks that both Melissa and Lydia send him and he turns back around swiftly. Jaime looks at him curiously, but Stiles merely ignores the stare and belts out a loud, “Good luck, guys!”

Out on the field, Scott, Jackson, and Danny all look up, Scott waving enthusiastically. Stiles feels a silly smile light up his face, and he nudges Jaime, pointing out his best friend out on the field.

“Woah,” Jaime says, watching as Scott pulls a particularly dramatic flip over another player. “Is your friend some kind of gymnast?”

Stiles winces as Jackson catches the ball and executes an even _more_ dramatic air flip, for no reason at all except to show up Scott. “No,” he denies. “They’re both just naturally talented.” Chris snorts and Stiles subtly gives him the stink-eye. He’s got a snappy comment to mutter on the tip of his tongue, but the brief touch of fingertips on his hand stop him.

Jaime’s hand is on top of his, the tan skin sharply contrasting with his own, and Stiles’ heart skips one, two beats. He feels the beginnings of a smile or a frown, he’s not quite sure, but he knows that he should react, so he grips back, flipping over his hand so his palm connects with Jaime’s.

It’s odd. It’s satisfying but-not-quite, and Stiles can’t help but think of when he used to binge on candy each Halloween, eating so much sugar and sweetness that he only ended up feeling hollow and ill, content with a bad aftertaste.

He takes a breath and breathes out slowly, tells himself to stop being an idiot about hopeless things, and holds on tight to the fingers offered to him.

They spend the next twenty or so minutes like that, holding hands and smiling at one another and talking in low voices, Stiles pointedly ignoring Chris on his side and trying to focus only on the boy next to him. It’s exhilarating, the knowledge that someone wants him and doesn’t care about showing it publicly. Stiles wonders, briefly, what it’ll be like when he introduces Jaime to Scott and the others, but he can’t quite imagine and he so he discards the thought quickly.

When Coach Finstock signals for halftime, Stiles feels an abnormally strong hand grip his jacket collar and yank, _hard_.

“We need to talk, Stilinski,” Lydia states, lips pulled into a snarl. “ _Now_.”

Stiles coughs, the grip too rough, and both Chris and Jaime move closer to Stiles as if to help. He pulls out of the hold, though, by pulling down his zipper, wheezing a bit as he sees Allison give Lydia a dirty look.

“Are you ok?” Jaime asks him, concerned and clearly unsure about what to do. Stiles can feel Chris Argent tense noticeably beside him, and he calms down knowing that however much Argent might not like _him_ , he likes werewolves even _less_.

Stiles stands, finally letting go of Jaime’s hand to face Lydia. She’s livid, he can see that easily; her eyes are dangerously bright, and her manicured hands are clenched tight around her crossed arms. Allison is more worried than anything, her expression indecisive as she stares between him and Lydia.

“What the hell, Lydia?” Stiles demands lowely, not wanting to make a scene. He can already feel a few stares from the people close to them so he inches a bit farther from the bench. Jaime gets up and mirrors his movements, hand on Stiles’ back, and Stiles notes the way Chris quickly moves to the edge of his seat.

“I should be saying that to you, I think,” Lydia snaps out angrily. “What are you doing holding hands with _him_?”

That snaps Jaime to attention and he flushes bright red, fists at his side. “If you have a problem with us-”

“Oh, stuff it, Urkel,” Lydia sneers. She steps right into Stiles’ space, tiny finger bruising him as she pokes him in the chest. “Is this one of your little pranks? Because no one’s laughing, Stiles.”

Allison’s small, “Lydia, ease up” is drowned out by Stiles’ own angry words. “I don’t know what the hell kind of drugs you put in your coffee today, but-”

“Fucking around on Derek is your first mistake,” Lydia hisses, and Stiles rears back, stunned. “Shoving it in our noses, as if we aren’t going to tell him? Your second.”

Stiles feels his heart drop right down to his feet, wits so far gone he can only ask, “Huh?”

“We knew you’d been acting weird,” she continues, and at this point she grips the front of his shirt in one balled fist, angry and self-righteous and so damn beautiful. “But to think you’d be sneaking around, on _Derek_ of all people? Downright _stupid_ of you.”

“Lydia,” Allison states, her pleading voice gone to be replaced with one of sheer steel. “Let him go, ok? We can all talk this through later-”

“I,” Stiles grinds out, his head so blown by what was happening he barely noticed that Argent was standing behind him, now, and Jaime had gone absolutely rigid, “am _done_.” He grabs Lydia’s wrist with one hand, willing her to let go and not rip his shirt, internally relieved when her fingers slacken. “How _dare_ you bring Derek into this? That is none of your business-”

“Of course it’s our business!” Lydia stomps her foot, heel sinking dangerously in the grass. “What effects Derek effects all of us-”

“And you care more about what effects him than-?” _me_ , he doesn’t finish, because he already knows the answer. He can tell that Derek missing his convenient stress reliever is more important to her than Stiles’ own happiness, and it makes him sick to his stomach with the realization that he considered her a friend.

“McCall! Whittemore! Back on the field, _now_!”

Stiles turns and sees both Scott and Jackson paused in the middle of the field, both with expressions of disbelief and anger aimed-

Aimed at _him_.

Scott hesitates, walking back into the game only once Allison shoos him away, but Jackson is stock still for minutes, staring him down with pure fury written over his face.

Stiles huffs out a strangled chuckle and turns to Lydia, sniffing a bit and willing himself not to cry. “Screw this," he mutters, turning on his heels to walk away, yanking his arm brutally out of Lydia’s grip. He can hear the beginnings of an argument start behind him, Argent’s voice loud and clear in the background, but Stiles focuses on the sound of Jaime’s slow footsteps echoing behind him, ignoring Lydia’s indignant cries of, “Stilinski! Get back here!”

Stiles has never felt so low in his life. He can almost feel the disgusting taste of dirt on his tongue, the flare of embarrassment on his skin, and he wonders as to how he could be so dumb for so many years. He chants in his head to hold it together, though, because he’s with Jaime and he can’t let him see how utterly _fucked up_ he is, how much of a mess he’s stepping into getting involved with him.

He wants this so bad (wants to be _normal_ so damn bad) that he clenches his teeth and sucks it up.

~*~*~*~*~*

Stiles taps out a rhythm on his thigh, nervous and desperate all at the same time. He’s calmed down now, having had enough time in the parking lot to control himself. Now, though, Jaime is uncharacteristically quiet, and Stiles can’t mistake the tense lines and gripped steering wheel for anything else than what it is. They haven’t spoken the entire ride so far, and they’re only a few minutes from Stiles’ house.

He honestly doesn’t know what to do; him and Jaime, this _thing_ , is so-

Stiles sighs and mentally shakes himself. This is his chance to escape from what happened today, and if he can’t grab hold of it completely, he doesn’t know _what_ to do. So he powers on, despite his trembling fingers and strung-out nerves.

“Derek is… well, he’s someone that, um, you could say-”                

He pauses, surprised by Jaime’s hand on top of his. He looks up, flushed and wide-eyed, to see the car parked in front of his house and Jaime staring at him with kind eyes. He still looks tense, but he’s not staring at Stiles as if he were the worst date, like, _ever_ so Stiles tries to relax. A little. “Hey, it’s ok. You don’t have to say anything, Stiles. Just breathe, yeah? You look like you’re about to throw up.”

Stiles chuckles softly and drags his free hand across his face. “You don’t even know the half of it. I just, Lydia and Allison, I’m _so_ sorry about them-”

“Hey, hey, it’s ok,” Jaime says, more relaxed than he seemed a few minutes ago. The older boy grips his hand tighter and smiles. “I don’t know what exactly happened-” Jaime curls his hand around Stiles’ neck, now, in order to stop Stiles from cutting him off (and the action is so familiar it _hurts_ , but Stiles is strong and he won’t flinch), “but know that whenever you’re ready, I’ll be here to listen, ok?”

“I want to tell you.” And it’s true, Stiles does. Jaime should know that Stiles is coming to him used and broken, that he’s been hurt to the point of no repair (only scarring), and that Stiles is, well. Jaime should probably know that Stiles is in love with someone else, but he figures that _that_ secret can definitely wait.

But Stiles is anything other than brave, so he leans into Jaime’s warm presence, tilting his head to the left so his chin brushes by Jaime’s lanky arm. He’s not as warm as Derek, but-

Stiles turns away again. “I want to tell you, but I’m not ready. I mean, it’s not you, it’s just that what happened is, well, a huge thing and I’m still not sure I’m over it and I really don’t want to scare you away because of this. I mean, you like me, sparkling personality and devilishly good looks obviously absent, so for _this_ to be the reason you get turned off… would kind of really suck,” Stiles finishes eloquently, wincing a bit at his rambling diatribe.

Jaime just laughs, though, and pushes his huge glasses up a bit higher on his nose. “Dork. I’m serious- I’m here when you want to talk. I just want to make you feel better for now, yeah?” He opens the car door then, throwing Stiles a soft smile as he does so.

As they’re both walking up to the front door, though, Jaime surprises Stiles by suddenly hip checking him awkwardly. It’s obvious that Jaime overestimated his strength because Stiles stumbles a bit sideways, and it’s so adorably horrible that Stiles just blanks when Jaime adds, “And, uh, I think you’re pretty good-looking. Just _FYI_.”

It’s the most ridiculous thing to say (FYI?), but it cheers Stiles up exponentially. The bright pink tips of Jaime’s ears are a definite plus, too, and it helps to snap Stiles out of it.

“And what,” Stiles teases as they reach the door. “I don’t have a sparkling personality, too?”

Jaime grins and crowds Stiles in a bit with his ridiculous height, fingers tugging on Stiles’ shirt tails. “I don’t know.” Jaime leans down a bit, making Stiles tilt his head up to see his face clearly. “I think I’m just after you for your body.”

Stiles freezes, the comment a bit too close to home. “Wow, what a casanova,” he forces out.

“Yeah,” Stiles’ dad agrees, as he swings open the front door with a flourish. “Real smooth guy there, Stiles. Don’t let him get away.”

“ _Sir_ -”

“ _Dad_ -”

The sheriff waves them off with a smile, adjusting his holster for a moment. “I’m about to head into work. Stiles, there’s some leftovers in the fridge, but you can order a pizza if you want, you know where the credit card is. I should be back home by eight, so take care, alright?”

Stiles gives his dad a quick hug goodbye and ushers Jaime inside, hoping neither of them noticed his lowered mood. He heads straight for the kitchen, grabbing the small Domino’s magnet on the fridge and the house phone. “Hey, make yourself at home! I’ll just order a pizza, is pepperoni ok?”

Jaime pops his head into the kitchen, sheepish expression on his face. “Mind if I use the bathroom?”

Stiles stops searching for his dad’s credit card to look up and nod. “Um, use the upstairs one if you can, we’ve been dealing with some plumbing issues with the one downstairs. It’s the second door on the left, right after my room.”

(Stiles locks himself in the downstairs bathroom and falls to the floor easily, knowledge from years of experience teaching him how to avoid bruising his knees too badly. He stutters out a breath, then two, and lets the panic wash over him, the tears and anguish and pain filling him up so full that he feels like he’ll burst. Pale fingers claw at his cupboard and he considers throwing up, but quickly pushes it aside- too much noise despite how welcome the release would be.

He thanks god that Jaime is only human when he ends up vomiting twice.)

Stiles orders the pizza and once he’s done, he wanders into the living room. “Hey, so I was thinking we could do some Redbox, you know, not let the day be a total waste- Huh.” Stiles eyes the empty living room in thought, and then charges up the stairs in search of his missing date.

He finds Jaime in his room, slumped over some of Stiles’ old comics on his desk and a box of some sort. “Hey, pizza’ll be here in half an hour. Want to go grab some movies from Redbox really quick?”

Jaime looks up, adjusting his glasses as he does so. “I was actually thinking we’d watch this?” He holds up a- a Game of Thrones box set?

Stiles narrows his eyes in suspicion. “Is that yours?”

“No. It was on your window sill.” Jaime looks confused now, too. “Maybe your dad bought them for you?”

Stiles knows it wasn’t his dad- a box set like that would set someone back more than fifty bucks at the least, and his father definitely wasn’t the type for surprise gifts. Stiles huffs quietly; this reeks of Scott, and Stiles figures his friend’s lame attempt at an apology might as well be of some use.

“Yeah, it was probably him.” Stiles reaches for Jaime’s hand (too thin, no calluses, long fingernails) and pulls him down the stairs. “I’m totally down for watching it, though, George R. R. Martin is a _genius_.”

~*~*~*~*~*

“That tickles,” Stiles mutters as he squirms in Derek’s arms.

Derek shrugs unapologetically, tightening his hold on Stiles and blowing another raspberry under his chin, right at the point where he’s most sensitive.

“Der _ek_ ,” he whines, hooking a leg around the larger body above him, his toes curling as he traces the other’s spine with his heel. “You’re the worst tease, you know that?” Even as he says it, though, Stiles draws a hand through dark, thick hair, sighing in contentment.

“I try,” Derek licks into his mouth, chuckling softly when Stiles kicks him. They kiss and its soft, gentle, and practiced, the kind of relaxed action that speaks of fond affection and long-spent time together. Stiles hums as stubble rubs against his face, Derek’s large hands framing his face as they lay there, content and happy and unconcerned with anything else.

“I love you,” Stiles whispers, and his heart feels too large for his chest, his skin too warm, his smile too bright. “I love you so much,” he repeats, if only because he _can_ , and Derek rears up to press their foreheads together, eye-crinkles all Stiles sees before their lips meet again.

“I love you, too,” Derek breathes into his mouth, and Stiles basks in it, the adoration he sees clearly in Derek’s eyes, the reverence with which the other touches him, the devotion Derek’s fingers convey as they caress his face. “But we have to get up soon. Have to make breakfast for the pack.”

Stiles grumbles and hides his face in Derek’s shoulder. “Stay.” He curls a hand around Derek’s bicep, tracing absent patterns with his fingers. “Please.” Stiles looks up then, pouts a bit as he begs the other with his eyes.

Derek nips his nose softly before biting his bottom lip teasingly, easing into a kiss before pulling away. “I promised them I’d cook,” and the way he says it indicates a small apology. “But you can stay here and I’ll bring you something in bed, yeah?” he offers, and Stiles nods happily.

“I’ll be waiting,” Stiles promises, covering himself in blankets as Derek pads away in only his boxers. A soft grumble reaches his ears and he smiles, hugging Derek’s pillow close so he can lay in the other’s scent happily.

Stiles wakes then, so abruptly he has to breathe out a few times, shaky and haggard as he gets up in bed. His heart is beating rapidly and his eyes are watering, but Stiles doesn’t quite know what he’s feeling. There’s something in the pit of his stomach and he’s unsure whether it’s longing, or anger, or something _else_ , a sickness perhaps-

Stiles congratulates himself on not throwing up, but he can’t get to sleep the rest of the night.

~*~*~*~*~*

The thing is, Stiles knows he’s in love with Derek. He knows this just like he knows the sun will rise in the morning and set in the evening, but just because something is an indisputable fact doesn’t mean Stiles isn’t trying to do everything in his power to forget that very fact.

So when he considers for a moment, just a moment, that he’ll check his old phone- he makes a promise to himself to stay firm. What Lydia had said to him struck a harsh nerve, but he wants to give the others a chance. Scott, for one, can be trusted to always be on his side. Right?

Stiles is sorely mistaken.

His phone has practically a thousand missed calls and a million text messages, and Stiles is just a bit too overwhelmed to even look at them. He only has twenty voicemails, though, so he dials his voice box and listens.

The first few aren’t very important. A few of Scott asking him to _please call him back_ , a couple from his dad before he remembered that his son changed numbers, one from a concerned Allison, a random message from the woman who liked to ask him to babysit her bratty kid-

After that, though, Stiles begins to reach truly unpleasant territory.

“Stiles,” Allison says, her voice small and kind, “please call me back. I know that what Lydia did was a bit much today, and I want-”

Stiles smiles softly as he presses delete. Allison, always the mediator.

“Stilinski, don’t even think for one second that this conversation is _over_ -” Stiles presses delete vindictively on Lydia’s screeching voice.

He finds that she left another three similarly worded messages. He erases them all.

“Answer Lydia’s calls, dickweed.” Stiles frowns at his phone for a second, considers calling Jackson back just to yell at him, and ultimately keeps listening. “Also, I never thought you had it in you, loser. Fucking up this bad? Takes some balls-” Stiles presses the button to erase a little harshly at that, biting his lip in anger.

“Look, dude,” Danny starts, his voice a bit out of breath. “You messed up, ok, but an apology-”

Stiles sucks in a disbelieving breath. Was everyone really going to act like this was _his_ fault?

“I can’t believe this, man.” Scott sounds angry, and for a moment Stiles almost thinks its on his behalf. “How could you do something so wrong? This isn’t like you, this isn’t the friend I grew up knowing- I mean, first you blow us off all break, and for what? _Him_? Was it all because of that guy, Stiles? Was it?”

Stiles’ heart stutters a moment, his grip on the phone knuckle-white tight.

“I feel like I don’t even know you anymore,” Scott admits quietly, and Stiles chokes on a sob. He throws his phone in a drawer, slamming it shut so hard everything on the wall trembles. He briefly considers the last message left on his voicemail, but quickly shakes his head, sure it’d be another one of his friends telling him how much a screw up he is for having some self-dignity.

Gods, he is such an _idiot_.

After an hour of him sitting on the floor by his bed, head tucked between his knees to ease his breathing, he slowly gathers his wits and stands. With trembling hands, he takes out the phone again and types out a short message, making sure to send it to everyone.

_What I do in my private life is none of your business. So stay out of my life, because I don’t want anything to do with yours anymore._

~*~*~*~*~*

Stiles kind of wants to laze around around the rest of the day, but when his dad knocks on his door around two, he peeks his head in and asks him if he wants to invite Jaime over for dinner.

Stiles only nods and sends out a quick text to the boy, but the reminder of Jaime actually helps get him out of his funk quite a bit. Sweet, adorable, geeky Jaime who falters when he talks too loud and tends to duck his head when embarrassed. Jaime who held his hand in public, a far cry from stolen moments in Stiles’ bedroom where he’s treated like the worst kind of dirty secret. Jaime who texts him every night without fail, who seems to consider him _worth_ something, a fact which still boggles Stiles occasionally. And dammit if Stiles isn’t needy enough to want that; to want to feel like he’s actually desired and needed, and not only for the role of researcher. He feels like he’s wanted for himself, only himself, and it’s something he hasn’t felt in a long time, let alone from anyone who’s not his father.

So when Jaime comes over an hour later, Stiles tries extra hard to be attentive and funny and sweet, touching his arm when Jaime makes an especially funny joke and making sure to include him in his inside jokes with his father. When they end up watching more Game of Thrones episodes, Stiles quickly crowds Jaime in on the couch, noting the flushed and happy expression on the other’s face as he does so.

(During one of the breaks, his dad excuses himself and drags Stiles inside the kitchen, grabbing him in a quick hug before telling him, “I’m happy for you, son. It’s nice to see you smiling again.”

Stiles chokes up a bit, clutching at his dad’s shoulders a bit before getting control of his emotions again. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Me too.”

Jaime doesn’t say anything when Stiles comes back and immediately grabs his hand, holding it close. Stiles decides right there and then that this guy is the best he’s ever gonna get.)

When they say goodnight, Stiles leaning back against his front door and Jaime with his hands tucked in his pockets, head bashfully lowered- Stiles gets the wonderful sense of teenage clichedness he’s never had the chance to feel before. He feels giddy as he suddenly leans forward, fingers shyly searching out the sides of Jaime’s worn out periodic table t-shirt. He has to lean up a bit, and Stiles isn’t sure how he feels about that, but Jaime is sweet when they kiss.

It’s chaste, a barely-there press of lips, but Stiles grins even as he can’t ignore the sense of unease in his stomach. Jaime is flushed, but he stares Stiles right in the eye as he mutters a soft, “Well, that was nice.”

Stiles laughs, stunned into it for a moment, before gathering up his courage and saying, “So, I think we should go out on a date.”

Jaime bites his bottom lip through a smile before nodding enthusiastically. “Yeah, that’d be great. Really, uh, great.”

Stiles takes pity on the obviously flushed and nervous teen. “I’ll text you.”

Jaime nods and waves as he heads out to his car, stumbling only once as he walks away.

~*~*~*~*~*

Stiles doesn’t talk to anyone in the pack at school.

They _do_ try to corner him at school, but Stiles tries his best to avoid them. He picks different seats in class, he rushes out first when the bell rings so as to merge in the sea of students, and he tries to cut down on the amount of times he uses his locker throughout the day.

It works well, until Jackson body-checks him into a locker much like the first day of classes.

He groans in pain as he watches Lydia and Jackson stare him down, both of their faces pulled in twin expressions of disdain. He’s about to yell, scream, do _something_ , when he hears Isaac’s voice a few feet away.

“Stiles?” he calls out, blue eyes taking everything in with an indescribable expression. “You ok, man?”

Jackson only snorts, flicking his eyes momentarily over the other boy’s form. “Get lost, Lahey.” Lydia doesn’t even bother glancing at him, keen eyes and pursed lips focused entirely on Stiles.

Isaac, despite all logic and expectations, steps forward. “Stiles?” he says again.

Stiles feels a surge of affection for the normally quiet teen as he straightens up and side-steps Jackson. “Would you mind walking me to class?” he asks, keeping his voice light. “Don’t wanna run into anymore problems if I can help it.”

Isaac only nods seriously. Stiles swears he hears a growl as they step away, but he only bumps a shoulder against Isaac. “Thanks,” he mutters.

Isaac pats him on the back, and interestingly enough, after that- he has a companion throughout the rest of the day.

It’s usually Isaac and Boyd walking him to and from his classes, nonchalant even in the face of Stiles’ thanks, but sometimes Erica will drag him around, too. She’ll talk his ear off about Batman, which, _way_ _cool_ , and even gives the pack dirty looks whenever they’re in the hall at the same time.

Stiles can’t help but feel totally loved and spoiled, and wonders if this is what real friendship should be like.

(Boyd’s with him when Scott tries to approach him on Wednesday. It’s not a huge deal, and Stiles is even willing to listen for a moment, but after Scott’s first word is “Derek”, well.

Stiles turns away, grabbing his backpack and shutting his locker in annoyance. “I have nothing to say to you,” he tells Scott.

He doesn’t know what to do when abnormally strong hands grip his arm, because yanking out of that kind of grip will most likely result in a dislocated shoulder for himself, but Boyd is-

He’s _angry_.

“Let him go, man, or I’ll do it for you.” And jesus, if the glare he levels at Scott is anything but scary. Stiles feels a sudden fondness for his new friend, moving between him and Scott to avoid any conflict.

“Just leave me alone, Scott.” Stiles pleads his best friend (?) with his eyes. “We don’t want any trouble.”

Stiles tries not to think of the injured look Scott gives him, then, as if the idea of him hurting Stiles is entirely ludicrous.)

~*~*~*~*~*

So Stiles decides that Boyd, Isaac, and Erica are his new friends forever, a decision he immediately makes them aware of. They give him eye-rolls and exasperated sighs, but Stiles can feel the love underneath their not-having-it facades.

~*~*~*~*~*

“Maybe I should just run away to Mexico,” Stiles moans, taking a large slurp out of his smoothie.

Boyd blinks, unamused expression gracing his features as he sits down across from him. “Stop whining. You’re ruining my mood.”

Stiles had thought that telling Boyd about Jaime would be a good thing. He seemed the most level-headed of the group, and Stiles really _did_ need advice on where to take Jaime out for their date. Plus, Stiles figured that they needed to hang out at least once at the mall to cement their wonderful new friendship. Unfortunately, Stiles was already questioning his decision a bit.

“You don’t understand! This has to be _perfect_ , ok, awe-worthy and amazing and all the adjectives that go with general awesomeness. I can’t mess it up, man, I can’t! This is my chance to finally-” Stiles cuts himself off abruptly, taking a deep breathe as he does so. He can see Boyd pause, and Stiles shifts his eyes for a moment. “To finally know what’s so great about this love thing,” he finishes lamely.

Boyd stares at him, his gaze heavy and searing. “I might have an idea.”

Stiles perks up instantly. “Seriously? Man, that’s great! Beacon Hills has nothing in terms of entertainment, I mean, Jaime is a college student, I don’t want to take him somewhere lame like the movies-”

“Take him to the ice-rink,” Boyd starts, cutting him off. “I work there nights, and I can let you two in after hours. For some _alone time_.” Boyd’s grim expression is more dirty smirk, now, and Stiles can’t help flushing a bit at the thought of having ‘alone time’ with Jaime.

“That would be awesome. Thanks a lot for this,” Stiles says sincerely. He was totally right about asking Boyd out for the afternoon- he _was_ the bestest new friend ever.

“Bro-fist!”

Boyd’s smirk promptly vanishes. “Don’t do that.”

~*~*~*~*~*

Stiles yanks on his fifth shirt in as many minutes, turning to his friends expectantly. “How about this one?”

Isaac ignores him completely, more focused on Stiles’ stack of Civil War comics, but Boyd gives him a thumbs up from his seat in front of the TV. Stiles sighs, giving up on the guys and finally turning to Erica, who’s just as engrossed in his comic collection as Isaac is.

“Help?” he pleads, and she sighs but dutifully gets up.

Erica ransacks his closet, digging through it with an efficiency that would scare him had he not already seen Lydia in action at a store. She hands him his tightest and newest pair of jeans along with a bright red plaid long-sleeve, one he’d never used before. “Here,” she says, stepping back and watching him as he quickly changes. “Wear a nice white shirt underneath,” she reminds him. “The layers will keep you warm in the ice rink.”

“Well?” he asks, arms wide to let her judge his [outfit](http://s5.favim.com/orig/69/dylan-ox27brien-dylan-obrien-teen-wolf-Favim.com-635723.jpg). “Do I look ok?” And Stiles tries to keep the nervous edge out of his voice, but he supposes it sneaks in when Erica gives him a fond look and searches for his comb.

“Growing out your hair this year was the best decision you ever made,” she tells him, a comb in a one hand and a bottle of gel in the other. “Now let’s see what I can do.”

~*~*~*~*~*

Jaime literally whistle when he picks up him up, and everyone just about dies laughing at Stiles’ red face. “You suck,” he mutters, but he drags Jaime into the house regardless, introducing him to all of his friends.

Watching Jaime awkwardly make conversation with Boyd, Erica, and Isaac makes Stiles unexpectedly uncomfortable, the happiness he _should_ be feeling covered under layers of what-ifs and could-have-beens. He tries to smile, to smother the ache he feels in his gut, but he can’t help but feel like he has a scar that’s making itself known, the scabs peeling off painfully and trails of blood trickling down his body.

It’s a slow kind of pain, and Stiles tries so hard to stop imagining Derek and the pack in this moment instead that he zones out.

“Stiles?” Jaime asks, touching his arm a bit nervously. He inclines his head to the door a bit, as if asking Stiles if it’s ok to head out now, and Stiles smiles.

“So everything is set up?” he asks Boyd, making sure the other boy’s friend will be there to open the door for them.

Boyd smirks and nods, and he drags Erica and Isaac out with him. “Yeah, just text me when you’re done.”

Stiles nods and says goodbye to his friends, wishing them a good time at the movies, not even thinking as he grabs Jaime’s hand. He blinks when Jaime starts caressing the inside of his wrist with his thumb, the gesture intimate and unfamiliar, but Stiles holds in the urge to pull away.

They grab dinner at a small restaurant, nothing too fancy because the last thing Stiles wants to do is make Jaime nervous- but it’s nice enough that there’s a wait outside.

"It'll be about thirty to forty minutes," the young girl at the front says, only giving them a brief glance before returning to the stack of papers in front of her. Stiles tries to lean in subtly, ignoring the unamused expression the girl gives him.

“Yeah, um, I was wondering-”

“Really?” The girl glances between him and Jaime, mouth thinning in irritation. “You’re gonna hit on me when you’re on a date?”

Stiles sputters and shakes his head a bit frantically. “No, no, no, oh my god, _no_. I’m Erika’s friend, I think she told you about me, I promise I’m not hitting on you-” Stiles turns to Jaime, worry etching his features immediately. “I swear I wasn’t hitting on her, dude!”

A giggle, and then the hostess smiles at him, pulling Stiles open-mouthed by the arm deeper into the restaurant. “Erika dared me ten bucks to do that,” she explains, and Stiles distinctly hears Jaime snort. “She said it’d be funny, and she wasn’t wrong.”

They stop at a small table in the back, the angling of the walls and drapes almost completely secluding it. “Here you go. My name is Martha, and if there’s a problem, you can just grab me out at front. Your server should be here in a second.” As Jaime sits, Martha leans just a bit closer to Stiles, whispering lowly into his ears. “Erika already gave me my paper back. If you ever need to set up another nice and private date, let me know.” With a wink, Martha rushes off, and Stiles awkwardly sits down, Jaime’s curious eyes following his every move.

“So what’d you have to give her for the nice setup?” Jaime asks, dimples showing in his grin.

Stiles shrugs and changes the subject, preferring to keep his small stint as a paper editor to himself. “This place has some _great_ seafood.”

Jaime quirks an eyebrow but allows it, nodding as turns back to his own menu. Stiles counts it as a win, feels a bit more relaxed now, and leans heavily into his chair.

“Already know what you’re ordering?” Jaime looks at his closed menu, and Stiles can feel the urge to smile as he notes the nervous manner Jaime holds the menu, gripping it tight as if it’d grow legs any moment now and run away.

Stiles shrugs and tries for nonchalant, especially once he notes the fidgety movements Jaime has going underneath the table. Stiles never would have taken him for a leg jiggler. Perhaps a hand wringer, considering the way Jaime talks with his hands and fingers, waving and flailing them when excited.

“I’ve been here before,” Stiles answers. “Came with a few friends once, for a birthday, and-” Stiles swallows, unsure whether to continue.

Jaime stares at him, and Stiles realizes quite suddenly that he’s never actually explained the pack to Jaime. Never put into words that friendships can happen fiercely, consume a person and then disintegrate just as quickly. He hadn’t explained a thing to Jaime, not really, and the patience he’s being given, the trust- Stiles feels an ache in his heart, and he’s not entirely sure it’s good.

But now, Jaime’s gaze is turning concerned, and Stiles figures he can tell the story. There’s no avoiding the past, and maybe sharing a few pieces of it instead of completely burying it will help him forget the pack more easily.

“It was Lydia’s birthday,” he starts, and Jaime sits just a bit straighter. “She used to throw these huge parties, you know, but that year she wanted something nicer. More intimate.” Jackson had actually called them all, sounding worried, telling them that Lydia didn’t want a party this year and that she’d locked herself in her room, the stench of sadness and tears strong enough for him to almost turn.

It’d taken everyone’s best persuasive techniques, the pack camped out in front of her bedroom door like a pile of abandoned puppies, but they’d finally convinced her to go out with them. No huge party of strangers- just _them_.

“She was in a bit of a depressed mood,” Stiles hedges, downplaying the actual situation significantly. “But it was fun. It was the middle of the week, so it was pretty empty, and we ended up pushing together like four tables together, not because we were a lot of people,” Stiles grins, remembering vividly the way Lydia had simply turned to the server and ordered _everything_ , “but because there was so much _food_.”

Jaime glances down at his menu, noting the almost ten pages of food and drink. Stiles laughs. “Yeah, dude, and we ate it _all_.” The appetites of werewolves, after all. “And gods, just for fun, we got this big bowl from one of the servers and started putting a little bit of everything into it, you know, just little bits of food from all the different plates and it was literally the grossest thing _ever_.”

It really had been epically disgusting, because it was soups mixed with pastas mixed with breaded seafood and who knows what else. It’d been mushy, and at the end, Danny had been so full he’d gagged at the sight.

“Who ate it?” Jaime asks, and Stiles tries not to notice the way Jaime’s eyes travel over his face in search of something, something Stiles isn’t sure he wants to show.

“Well, the thing is, we let it sit there the entire time we ate and messed around. We were here for hours, so when we finally looked at it again, it was mushy and cold and _disgusting_. Even me and Scott were too wigged out to try it when we couldn’t figure out whether to use a spoon or a fork.” Lydia had wrinkled her nose when she’d seen it, and Jackson was so obvious in his revulsion that Derek had taken a bit of pity on him and moved the bowl closer to himself. Stiles still remembers the contemptuous looks the staff had sent all of them, their eyes demanding a damn good tip for all the horsing around.

“Allison ended up eating it, the entire bowl, in less than a minute.” Jaime has an amazed look on him, and Stiles wonders thoughts had crossed his friend’s mind when he’s met Allison at the Showcase. If Jaime could tell that Allison is strong, could bench press more than Stiles, and that her aim never missed, just as her resolve never wavered.

If Jaime knew that the calluses Allison has on her hands come from holding guns, knives, and bows, that Allison is training to lead an entire clan of hunters with honor and integrity, that the word _danger_ is something to take note of and then dismiss for her- would he still be amazed by the idea that she could stomach something as insignificant as a bowl of gross food?

“Were you close with her?” Jaime bites his bottom lip, but his eyes don’t lower as he questions Stiles. He’s brave, Stiles notes, to work against his own anxieties and social awkwardness as often as he does. Stiles likes to think he has a bit of a hand in that, however arrogant the idea might be.

“She was Scott’s girlfriend, so yeah, I guess we were,” he answers, remembering the way he’d cheered for her when she’d taken the last bite of the mystery bowl. Allison had grinned wide and happy in response, gunk stuck in her teeth and soup dripping down her chin, and even Derek couldn’t hold back his laughter. Stiles recalls that this was before his- _thing_ with Derek had started, so Stiles had felt comfortable enough to stare his fill, memorize eye crinkles and bared, blunt teeth.

It had been a nice night.

Stiles smiles, then, the itch under his skin too much for more reminiscing. “Do you know what you’re getting then?” Stiles asks.

~*~*~*~*~*

“Don’t peek!”

“I won’t,” Jaime promises, his shoulders shaking with laughter as Stiles guides him awkwardly into the ice rink. Stiles glances once more at the blindfold that Jaime’s wearing and hopes its thick enough that he won’t see through it. He’s close enough to catch a whiff Jaime’s cologne, and it’s nice but wrong at the same time, not musky enough, no underlying smell of leather and _earth_.

There’s also a lack of overwhelming self-hatred, though, so Stiles figures he can grow used to a bit of cologne.

With a final nod at Boyd’s friend, Stiles unties the blindfold (he has to stand on his tiptoes to do it without pulling hair, and Stiles smiles at the oddness of the action).

Jaime smiles wide, turning back to Stiles almost immediately. “How’d you manage to get us the ice rink so late at night?”

“Boyd works here,” Stiles relies, pulling on Jaime’s hand to guide him to where their skates were. “He just needs to repolish the ice when we’re done, so we have a couple of hours at the least.”

“Hey,” Jaime mutters, tugging at their intertwined hands just as Stiles bends low to pick up his skates. “This is wonderful.”

Stiles grins, pleased, and straightens up. “I’m glad our first date isn’t a total disaster.”

Jaime’s eyes lower, his happiness more than apparent. They’re close, only inches apart, hands still holding and forgotten skates in Stiles’ other hand.

Jaime leans down, hesitant, his breath ghosting a bit in the coldness of the room. Stiles admires the view; big brown eyes, lightly tanned skin, somewhat crooked teeth, and wonders at how someone so kind and gentle and sweet managed to be interested in _him_. Because that’s the kicker, the thing that Stiles is still mostly confused about; someone is looking right at him and wanting it, _all_ of it, and Stiles- Stiles doesn’t know what to do with that, doesn’t quite know how to approach any situation where people don’t specifically want something from him.

It’s either research or a good fuck, isn’t it, and Scott has proven that his friendship isn’t worth much either-

Stiles bridges the gap, then, rearing up and kissing Jaime hard, hands reaching up for purchase and tangling in soft brown hair, leaving raised welts from his nails that mark the urgency and frustration Stiles feels.

And it bothers Stiles, how Jaime is so soft and pliant under his lips, tongue shy and hands respectfully closed around his upper waist. He wants rough and tumble, passion and nips and bruised lips, but he’s only getting gentleness which just makes Stiles want to _cry_.

Jaime is the one who pulls away and he brings a lone hand up to cradle Stiles’ face, his lips ruddy and eyes bright, and Stiles can’t take the kindness he sees there.

Nor the amount of understanding, either.

“We should get to skating,” Stiles chokes out, pulling away and looking down, face aflame. Jaime nods, always complacent to what Stiles wants, his fingers trailing down Stiles’ arm with a comforting intent.

Stiles ignores it and sits down.

~*~*~*~*~*

The rest of the date is a bit awkward, but relatively nice. There’s a tension that doesn’t leave, not even as Jaime parks in front of the Stilinski household, so Stiles resigns himself to having messed up and quickly opens the car door, hoping to cut off the inevitable “this isn’t working” talk.

“Night,” Stiles mutters, a strained smile on his face and an open door ready for his escape.

Jaime ducks his head and sighs before twisting in his seat, turning around to grab something from the back. “Um, I got you something.”

Stiles brightens. “Really?”

Jaime shrugs with a small smile, a bright pink bag in his lap. Stiles only raises an eyebrow before Jaime laughs and admits, “My mom might have wrapped it for me.”

“Open it,” Jaime prompts, pushing the bag into Stiles’ hands. “I’ve noticed you’ve been having a rough time of things-” an understatement, really, given the Showcase and such- “and since this is our first official date, I figured I should. I don’t know. Commemorate it?”

Stiles grins as he tears through the tissue paper, grabbing the- book?

Stiles glances up and Jaime is watching him, anxiously, waiting for his reaction. Stiles is grateful, of course he is, but he already has the first installment of George R.R. Martin’s series. Nonetheless, he traces the worn cover of the book, noting that it’s a first edition simply from the cover.

“Open it.” Stiles looks up and then down, slowly opening the cover and discovering it signed.

By the author himself.

“Oh my god.”

Jaime sighs in a relieved manner, but Stiles is too awed to really notice.

“Oh my god,” he repeats, staring down at what must have cost a fortune, really.

“I hope you like it,” Jaime tells him. “That day was a rough one for you, and I just wanted to remind you of the nice night we had instead, you know. Not to erase the bad with the good, exactly, but maybe to at least... overshadow it?”

And Jaime looks so hopeful right there, so open and thoughtful, and Stiles feels a stirring of affection he’s never felt before for the other, at least not before tonight.

“This is really expensive,” is all Stiles can say, his heart beating rapidly in his chest and his hands sweating just a bit.

Jaime only shrugs. “My Uncle owns a bookstore in Ecuador, so I asked him to look around for me. It’s family, don’t worry, he gave me a really good price.”

Stiles sits there for a moment, clutching the book in his hands and staring at the boy who is much too good for him.

“Thanks,” he whispers, inching forward and stealing a kiss so chaste that Jaime only blinks at him in response. And Stiles retreats then, his face flushed and his skin clammy, practically jogging up to his front door in embarrassment.

He waves once he opens the door, though, even blowing an exaggerated kiss to a laughing Jaime as he drives away.

~*~*~*~*~*

Stiles doesn’t stop in the kitchen or the living room once he’s inside, too excited and too happy to do anything but rush up his stairs like an overly enthusiastic puppy.

His dad won’t be home for a while, so he can’t show him his gift yet. Doesn’t mean he can’t showcase it, though. He enters his room without looking, turning the book over in his hands as he heads straight for his bookshelf.  He arranges the book carefully on the shelf that’s eye level, propping it up so faces outward instead of being tucked in like all the over novels and comics he has.

Finally satisfied, Stiles turns around only have the living daylights scared out of him by Derek Hale.

“What the hell?!” Stiles shrieks, right hand to his chest and the left flat against the bookshelf to support himself.

Derek only growls, eyes bright in the darkness of the room, and Stiles feels gutted.

Derek is here, in his room, and Stiles can almost feel the panic rising up in him, his skin suddenly too tight for him and his throat tight. More than the panic, though, more than the overwhelming urge to flee as far away as possible is the longing Stiles feels, to touch and feel and look.

Derek hasn’t changed much, same scruff and the same hair and the same damn leather jacket, but he _feels_ different. As if a friend has finally come home, Stiles’ arms want to wrap around him and hold on, just as his lips want to touch and caress and _know_ just as they used to. He hadn’t even realized it’s been so long since he’s seen the other man (which is a lie, gods, such a lie, Stiles has been overly aware of the time, almost to the point of tallying the days on the wall like prisoners did in a jail, counting down the moments until freedom- or in his case, _Derek_ ). He looks a bit run-down, now that Stiles can see more clearly. Angry. Frustrated.

Stiles steps back, not only to put distance between them, but to control the urge he has to crawl over and climb underneath Derek’s skin and live there, take refuge and never leave again.

But he has Jaime now, he has pride and dignity, so Stiles lifts his head up and turns away, walks to his desk as nonchalantly as possible. “What’re you doing here?” he asks, careful to keep his voice steady despite the fact that Derek can probably hear his heartbeat a mile away.

“Been waiting. A while.” Short and to the point. Stiles almost snorts at the unchanging way Derek is.

But his answer reminds him- “Wait, my windows are laced with mountain ash, how-”

It only takes a second for Stiles to realize that Derek actually broke in. What is his life.

“You can’t do that, you know,” Stiles tells him, going to his desk and messing around with the mounds of papers he has overflowing the table. His hands itch to do something, and if it keeps his eyes away from Derek, all the better. “My windows were upgraded for a reason, man,” Stiles says, meaning the mountain ash.

“I used to.” Derek grunts as he steps closer, taking up the space Stiles used to before he moved to his desk. “Be able to come in, I mean.”

Stiles shrugs, unsure what Derek is getting at. It’s been months without word, and now he’s here and in his room and Stiles has no idea what is even going on.

“So that’s it, then,” Derek says, and Stiles almost looks up, because his voice sounds- tired. Resigned. Broken.

Stiles doesn’t answer, entirely certain that whatever he thinks he’s hearing is his _own_ imagination, making up excuses for him to go back and-

“I hadn’t.” At Derek’s pause, Stiles stops and listens. “I don’t,” Derek tries again.

Stiles almost laughs at Derek’s awkwardness, but his chest feels too small for even a deep breath, so he holds it in and waits.

“I should’ve talked to you sooner, before everything got-” Derek finally gets out, voice low and dark, and Stiles can’t help but look up finally. Derek is facing his bookshelf, so Stiles is saved from eye contact at the least. “Shouldn’t have. In the first place. Never should have-”

Stiles notes the clenched fists absently. He bites his lip, understanding now what Derek wants.

“Jaime is great, you know. Sweetest guy I’ve ever met, really, and so considerate and thoughtful.” Derek straightens, and Stiles continues his string of careful truths. “He shares my interests, and it’s nice, you know? To be able to talk to someone about things I care about, without worrying if I’m boring them half to death.” Stiles laughs. Derek doesn’t.

“He’s better than I deserve,” he finishes, guiltily glancing down because it was the truth.

“You’re happy, then?”

And Stiles can’t see anything but Derek’s back, but he’s angry now. Angry that Derek came here out of some sick sense of guilt, telling him that what he had with Stiles was a 'shouldn’t have', like it was a mistake, something to _take_ _back_ if he could. Stiles has come to terms with never being able to have Derek the way he’s wanted to, but he’s always taken a sick sort of comfort in knowing that Derek had at least enjoyed bedding him. Having him, even if he hadn’t wanted _all_ of Stiles.

Now, he’s only a regret, a guilt-ridden screw-up for Derek. And that hurts more than anything has before.

So Stiles tries to convey his happiness, because Derek can take his stupid apologies and _shove_ _it_.

“How could I not be happy?” Stiles says, and that’s when Derek punches his bookshelf straight through.

Stiles jumps back, a bit scared but mostly confused. Derek, despite his many flaws, had never gone beyond wall-slams and violent threats. Breaking an entire bookshelf, though. That’s different.

“What the _hell_ -” Stiles starts, but then he notices that he’s alone, now, in the room. A quick glance out his window shows him Derek’s quickly retreating back, and Stiles lets out a small mutter of, “Asshole,” before sitting down and getting to work on cleaning up.

Gods. What a mess.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, check my [tumblr](http://thebatwiggler.tumblr.com/) for updates and other fic. This chapter was almost entirely posted in parts on tumblr before here, jsyk.

**Author's Note:**

> Just so you all know, my mental image for Jaime is actor Andrew Garfield- specifically how he looks [here](http://cdn.crushable.com/files/2011/05/garfield-2.jpg). Also, title is taken from the Adele song "I Found A Boy". 
> 
> Comments and critique are love <3


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